Today’s poem

I’m a checkout girl at Tesco, I’m on checkout No 8, And though I’m happy at my work, it’s Christmases I hate. For when it’s late December, it comes as no surprise, We’re issued Father Christmas hats and they’ve never got my size So the Father Christmas bobble keeps bobbling in my eyes!

The stackers and the packers are dressed as Santa’s elves, Dashing to and fro refilling all the empty shelves. The shoppers crash their trolleys and clutter up the aisle While the queue to reach my checkout seems to stretch for mile on mile, And my Father Christmas bobble doesn’t even raise a smile.

Frozen turkeys pass before me in a never-ending stream, Christmas puddings in their hundreds follow close across my screen. With overloaded trolleys, there’s no room for any more . . . (Are they feeding the five thousand? Are they stocking up for war?) While Do They Know It’s Christmas? echoes round the store.

The customers are frowning and studying their list Making sure before they reach me that there’s nothing they have missed, But I bob my little bobble. . . I really feel an ass . . . To inject some Christmas spirit in the shoppers as they pass. (I’m all for Christmas spirit but I like mine in a glass!)

So think about the checkout girl imprisoned at her till; Give her a little ‘Thank you’ as you stop to pay your bill. It’s not her fault your overdraft will cause your spouse to grieve And perhaps demand a quick divorce, so, when it’s Christmas Eve Please wish her ‘Merry Christmas’ just before you leave.

Vera Burrell, Great cornard, Suffolk.