In their efforts to restore our sanity waiting to pay for grocery shopping, supermarkets have now introduced the Holy Grail - the self service check out! However, I doubt that the bright spark who received their company bonus on the strength of such a suggestion has ever had the misfortune to use one. Only the other day I witnessed two confused pensioners wafting their debit card in all directions over the machine in order to locate the mysterious contactless icon in order to pay for their shopping (which consisted of a TV Times magazine, a bag of satsumas and a Toblerone - obviously a cosy night with the TV planned with a guilt free option thrown in). Luckily, a rescue mission was launched from the `happy to help' station and they were both saved from further Zumba exhaustion.
My own experience was less embarrassing but, heaven knows, far more infuriating. In hindsight, I perhaps should never have been seduced by the harem of self service check out stations and the ultimate quick `rush and go' operation (a kind of grocery Formula One pit stop) but instead I should have openly embraced the brief interaction with a real human being. But as time wasn't on my side, I decided to forego all apprehension and reap the benefit of this modern facility. Screen "Have you got a bag?" Yes or No? I pressed the "no" button with a new found determination. "Swipe your first item" it continued. With wild abandonment and added confidence I swished the packet across the sensor. "Place item in bag" the screen read. What bag? I haven't got one. And so I placed it on the side counter. "Place item in bag" the screen continued to flash and so I continued to place it back onto the side counter "I haven't got a bag" I said to the machine "Just get a grip and let me scan my second item and let me get out of here". "Place item in bag!" it flashed again. "What bag?" I yelled "I haven't got a f@*king bag for God's Sake!". And that was it, all my patience, my inept ability to rationalise with a machine and hormonal combustion had been thrown to the wall...and the packets thrown back on the shelf!
I was reminded the other day of how blissfully innocent we had all been as children watching programmes such as Mary, Mungo & Midge, The Clangers and Captain Scarlet. How our imaginations had been entranced by utter nonsense and kept spellbound for all of 30 minutes before tea. To be honest, I wasn't so much reminded as caught in a state of a self awareness that I will never lose that ability to believe in nonsense and make believe...ever. Take watching the film `Pretty Woman' for example. What woman gets into a bath with perfect make up on, has a good 8 hours kip then wakes up `cat walk' ready? And yet I'm still happy to believe it.
But...here's a reality check. Baths are steamy and unless you want to look like Dracula's mistress I would advise against it (and yes I have adorned that look many times, even without the bath!) and the less said about the bed hair monster the better! Which throws in the question of `how on earth women in the 1950's could cope with a head full of rollers at bedtime and actually get any sleep is beyond me', their skulls must have resembled a stickle brick!.
Any dentists out there? Please may I enquire what exact language you revert to speaking when discussing my teeth? If you're speaking in tongues then you forget that it's actually me who is doing the praying! The riddle of various formulas being dutifully recorded by the nurse is impressive to say the least, as is my ability to answer your questions with my mouth wide open and your remarkable finely tuned ear to decipherer my tribal grunts for "yes" and "no". To be fair, I can't think of many people who enjoy going to see the dentist, it probably has a lot to do with the ultimate submission of laying motionless on your back for ages.. But saying that, Fifty Shades Of Grey could be a game changer here - male dentists all over the UK could already have a queue of excitable women desperate for appointments ready to enjoy the pleasure/pain barrier. As for me, I'll settle for two appointments a year and a deep clean thanks!
My own experience was less embarrassing but, heaven knows, far more infuriating. In hindsight, I perhaps should never have been seduced by the harem of self service check out stations and the ultimate quick `rush and go' operation (a kind of grocery Formula One pit stop) but instead I should have openly embraced the brief interaction with a real human being. But as time wasn't on my side, I decided to forego all apprehension and reap the benefit of this modern facility. Screen "Have you got a bag?" Yes or No? I pressed the "no" button with a new found determination. "Swipe your first item" it continued. With wild abandonment and added confidence I swished the packet across the sensor. "Place item in bag" the screen read. What bag? I haven't got one. And so I placed it on the side counter. "Place item in bag" the screen continued to flash and so I continued to place it back onto the side counter "I haven't got a bag" I said to the machine "Just get a grip and let me scan my second item and let me get out of here". "Place item in bag!" it flashed again. "What bag?" I yelled "I haven't got a f@*king bag for God's Sake!". And that was it, all my patience, my inept ability to rationalise with a machine and hormonal combustion had been thrown to the wall...and the packets thrown back on the shelf!
I was reminded the other day of how blissfully innocent we had all been as children watching programmes such as Mary, Mungo & Midge, The Clangers and Captain Scarlet. How our imaginations had been entranced by utter nonsense and kept spellbound for all of 30 minutes before tea. To be honest, I wasn't so much reminded as caught in a state of a self awareness that I will never lose that ability to believe in nonsense and make believe...ever. Take watching the film `Pretty Woman' for example. What woman gets into a bath with perfect make up on, has a good 8 hours kip then wakes up `cat walk' ready? And yet I'm still happy to believe it.
But...here's a reality check. Baths are steamy and unless you want to look like Dracula's mistress I would advise against it (and yes I have adorned that look many times, even without the bath!) and the less said about the bed hair monster the better! Which throws in the question of `how on earth women in the 1950's could cope with a head full of rollers at bedtime and actually get any sleep is beyond me', their skulls must have resembled a stickle brick!.
Any dentists out there? Please may I enquire what exact language you revert to speaking when discussing my teeth? If you're speaking in tongues then you forget that it's actually me who is doing the praying! The riddle of various formulas being dutifully recorded by the nurse is impressive to say the least, as is my ability to answer your questions with my mouth wide open and your remarkable finely tuned ear to decipherer my tribal grunts for "yes" and "no". To be fair, I can't think of many people who enjoy going to see the dentist, it probably has a lot to do with the ultimate submission of laying motionless on your back for ages.. But saying that, Fifty Shades Of Grey could be a game changer here - male dentists all over the UK could already have a queue of excitable women desperate for appointments ready to enjoy the pleasure/pain barrier. As for me, I'll settle for two appointments a year and a deep clean thanks!
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