Self-service tills at supermarket drive me crazy

They say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. If that is so, then I am already a lost cause. Mrs Nurden has noted I spend a lot of time mumbling under my breath about the state of the world.

But one item guaranteed to turn me into a raging bull elephant is a supermarket self-service till.

I’m sure they are all linked to a supercomputer planning to take over the world by driving us insane.

For years I avoided them but curiosity finally got the better of me and I waded in with my shopping basket, loyalty card and sense of wonder that a machine could replace Mrs Robinson at the check-out.

I like Mrs Robinson. She always offers to start packing for me.

The machine doesn’t. It just sits there with its arms folded like a school teacher waiting for an unruly pupil to hand over the homework.

Try as I might, I can’t scan shopping as quickly as Mrs Robinson, who was obviously trained in the dark arts of retail wrist manipulation. My slowness leads to a stand-off as the impatient machine announces to the world “Unexpected item in the packing area” as if I had planted an improvised incendiary device.

“It’s not unexpected!” I yell back. “I put it there. Look. It’s a tin of chopped tomatoes!”

The machine remains unrepentant, repeating its warning in that ominous monotone way Mrs Nurden reserves for when I haven’t put the bin out.

A maiden scurries in from the shadows to save me from my distress with her antichaos card which soothes the machine.

All is fine, at least until 30 seconds later when it takes umbrage again, this time at my bean sprouts.

Mrs Nurden tells me I shouldn’t, but sometimes machines just need a good talking to.