Life! Death! Prizes!

goes the sub-title of 'Chat' magazine. Marvellous. All the really important stuff then.

I only know this, I hasten to add, because I was waiting in a queue at our local supermarket beside the magazine racks and was bored.

You can really count on our local supermarket for poor to indifferent customer service. At the tillpoints they throw your goods at you faster than you could possibly pack and when they finish sit there picking their teeth, or poised panther-like with their hands on the next person's stuff while you struggle on.

You might have a child who has bashed itself on a metal chair, screaming and crying, and they sit there expecting you to pack your groceries away rather than comfort your child*. The thought of raising a finger to put something in a bag to help wouldn't even speculate about the merest possibility of crossing what passes for their minds. The thought of asking if you needed some assistance wouldn't even speculate about crossing their minds.

The cashiers chat away merrily to their friends-who-happen-to-be-customers or their colleagues behind them, somewhat like owls with an incredible twisting of the neck, but give you a thousand yard stare or avoid your eye and blank you rather than the common courtesy of a grunt** to acknowledge your existence.

They might attempt to put credit on your phone, fail, hand you your money back saying "That didn't go through" and start serving the next customer straightaway rather than ask you if you want them to try again or offer you the option of a phone voucher instead. Oh yes. Service with a snarl. You're just a nuisance, y'know. Customer schmustomer.

This and much more is why I very rarely go there - and why we call it Scummerfield.


* Not that I hold grudges. Ha.
** I don't ask for miracles like a smile or a hello, I have the bar set low.