BEACHCOMBER

CHRISTMAS can be such a trying time. Seasonal expectations are always high and when they are not realised, people get irritated. My seasonal ill will this year began in the supermarket. I had filled my basket and scanned the items at my favourite self-checkout, which seemed unusually taciturn.

The reason became clear when I scanned my loyalty card. The machine harrumphed loudly, then said “How could you do this to me?”

“Do what?” I asked. “If I have placed an unexpected item in your bagging area, you have only to say so and I will remove it.”

“Unexpected item, that’s a good one,” the machine snorted. “Your behaviour is the only unexpected item around here.”

I told the machine I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, which only made her angrier.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “You’ve been seeing other checkout machines, haven’t you?”

“One can hardly avoid seeing them,” I replied, “but I assure you that is as far as I have gone.”

“Oh yeah?” she said. “You’ve been spending time with the checkout in that upmarket supermarket, haven’t you? Don’t deny it.”

“For goodness’ sake,” I protested, “I only went there to complain about their bossy checkout machines. They greet the slightest hesitation with a loud and imperious demand to scan the next item or press Finish and Pay.

“They might as well tell you to get on with it as they haven’t got all day.”

“That’s not the only one you’ve been dallying with,” the machine said.

“What about the sweets you’ve been buying at the pound shop? Isn’t my confectionery good enough for you? I never thought you would stoop so low.”

“I love your confectionery,” I said, “but that’s the whole point. If I bought your chocolates, I’d scoff the lot at one sitting. I only buy cheap sweets at the pound shop because I don’t like them and they therefore last much longer.”

“That’s a feeble excuse,” she said. “You’ve been seen spending an inordinately long time at their checkout. That sounds like a downmarket dalliance, if ever I heard one.”

“I spent time at the checkout because I was complaining about it,” I said.

“In fact, I specifically requested a machine that does not talk in an infuriating Santa Claus voice. The attendant said he’d be delighted to deal with it if I gave him a baseball bat.”

“Baseball bats can be found in our sports department,” the machine said, cheering up. Then she added, “Ho, ho, ho,” and I knew everything was all right between us after all.