98 YEARS OLD AND STILL CHECKING OUT CHECKOUTS...

HAVING not called at my local supermarket for some time for a chat with my favourite checkout machine, I took the opportunity the other afternoon to pop in while it wasn’t particularly busy and purchase some essential items. After collecting these, I headed for the aforementioned checkout machine, scanned a pack of smoked salmon and placed it in the so- called bagging area. The machine, in its usual coy manner, remained silent. Feeling rather playful myself, I dropped my hat on top of the smoked salmon.

“Unexpected item on the purchases shelf,” the machine said.

I was astonished. “What happened to ‘ bagging area’?” I asked.

“One always tries to enhance one’s vocabulary, particularly when talking to erudite gentlemen such as yourself, Mr Beachcomber,” the voice replied. “Anyway, so many people have complained about the ‘ bagging area’ phrase, I thought I’d try something different. What do you think?” “It’s delightful,” I said. “Well done.” “But the item is still unexpected,” she repeated. “Please remove the item from the purchasing shelf.”

“What’s unexpected about it?” I asked. “It’s my hat. In such cold weather, surely you cannot find a hat unexpected.”

“It’s your choice of hat that I find unexpected,” she said. “It’s so cold out, I’d have expected you to be wearing your very silly Russian fox fur hat rather than the comparatively flimsy artificial fur hat you’ve plonked on the purchasing shelf.”

“I wore the Russian hat yesterday,” I said, “when it was even colder. Now that the temperature has shot up above zero, I felt it would be OK to downgrade to the other hat.”

So saying, I removed the hat from the shelf and scanned through a bottle of champagne. “Approval needed,” she said sternly. “I’m 98,” I protested. “You know that. We hardly need to bother an assistant to come over and verify that I’m over- 18.”

“Not that sort of approval,” she chuckled; “I meant my own approval. Ah, it’s Laurent- Perrier Ultra Brut. I do so strongly approve of that.”

“I’d be delighted to share it with you if you like,” I said. “What time do you finish here?”

“Ooh Mr Beachcomber,” she said, “you know I’m not meant to chat to customers during working hours. Do you have a Nectar card?”

“With L- P Ultra Brut, who needs nectar?” I asked.

“Please take your items,” she said, spotting that an assistant was heading towards us.”

“Quick,” I said, “tell me when you’ll be free.” “I’ll write you a note,” she said. As innocently as possible, I placed my shopping in a bag and complimented the assistant on the new nomenclature for their bagging area. She stared at me and said she didn’t know what I was talking about.

As she scurried off, the machine said, “Notes are dispensed below the scanner,” and I can swear she was chuckling as I left.