The Checkout Girl

Wednesday, 17 December 2008

I miss the place so much this week I go to my local Sainsbury’s on a day off. My shop comes to almost £90. And I react in exactly the same way as my customers: shock, horror, ‘really??’ Followed by frantic bill-checking afterwards. As a result, I resolve to live a little and pop into Morrisons. I buy a packet of frozen peas, frozen vegetables, pizza bases, bread and milk and it comes to just under £7. That is cheaper. I need to stake this place out, hunt down items on my regular shopping list, get to know the store despite there being no obvious attraction. If I could, aged fifteen, go out with the sweaty boy with pimples and over-sized glasses, I can do this. OK, so that relationship only lasted for a third of an hour, but it was good to step into my discomfort zone. And if it saves some pennies, I’m up for the challenge. Customer service here really sucks, though. The checkout girl barely looks up. No matter, in these times I’d rather save some pennies than get a pleasant smile.

The Sunday Times has run an exposé on workers’ rights at Amazon. Endless shifts, long weeks and terrible pay. They get £6.30 an hour, which is the same as Sainsbury’s. But the big complaint is about those who are punished for being ill; taking a day off sick results in one penalty point. A worker with six points faces dismissal. Thank goodness I don’t work there.

Thursday, 18 December 2008

The first hour today is really quiet. A few people come through the tills, but most of the time I’m just twiddling my thumbs. I read Justin’s newsletter and he says that Woolworth’s demise has had a knock-on effect because Entertainment UK—who supply Sainsbury’s with DVDs, CDs, games and books—is part of the Woolies chain. He talks of stock supply challenges, but states they are now working with three new suppliers. His outlook is eternally upbeat and it’s obvious to see why. Sainsbury’s prospects look bright, they’ve cornered their market fairly well and may yet ride out the hard times ahead.

But while the view from the top down is looking good, at the bottom where the wheels of the supermarket turn silently I’ve noticed a quiet indifference. Most of the newsletters sit unread and the internal magazine is usually only thumbed by me—my colleagues clock in, do their duties and clock out—and my questions about the future of the supermarket and its success are met with lethargic shrugs or bemused stares. ‘It’s just a job,’ I get told.

During a quiet period I get sent to the bakery. Sarita, a young Asian checkout girl, shows me the ropes. She turns out to be a great source of gossip, although I notice some bitterness in her tone compounded by the fact that she never smiles. As we get our hats and aprons on she tells me that two Cogs have been sacked this week—one of them for stealing. It is the stupidest thing to do because there are cameras right above the tills.

As Sarita talks, it becomes clear that she hates being on tills. ‘The supervisors have got their favourites and there is a lot of backstabbing—you’ll find out.’ She says that the customers are ‘horrid’ and the more she talks about them, the clearer it becomes that she actually hates them. Her advice to me is ‘just keep your head down and don’t get involved…everybody finds out everyone’s business and then interferes. I got some training at the cigarette kiosk and I told one person—by the time I went down everyone knew.’

She says all of this with little prompting or interruption from me. I’m starting to feel rather perturbed by the picture she paints of this place, until it transpires that she’s going through a hard time right now because she has just broken up with her boyfriend who works in the store and is the son of one of the supervisors.

‘I let business and pleasure come too close together and now I’m paying the price.’

I spend the next thirty minutes packing cookies and noting that the place is a mess. I find myself putting cookies into paper bags and leaving traces of chocolate behind on all the packs I touch. It’s not unhygienic, but the packs look really grubby by the time I’m done with them. For the next two hours I seal buns, baps and hot-dog rolls under the supervision of Sarita, only to find an hour later that I’m sealing them in packaging that is not sufficiently airtight to prevent them from going stale, so I redo them all.

I meet Marcus, a third-year Business Studies student Cog. We start chatting and he tells me he doesn’t know what he’s going to do once he graduates. He’s going to stick with this until he figures it out and ‘rides out the recession’.

I’m sure I hear my name called but Sarita assures me it’s someone else. Later she rushes to get me and says the supervisors are furious because they’ve put out three calls for me. I race to the tills. ‘I couldn’t hear you because the music in the bakery is blasting,’ I tell Susie while trying to catch my breath. She smiles, not looking remotely convinced.

The first lady through my till is a lady in her late sixties. She complains about her no-good thirty-something son. ‘He’s trained as a graphic designer but has been out of work for eight years. He’s lazy, doesn’t help around the house and I’m his financial crutch. And now we’ve got this recession and I’m more stressed than ever. He’s doing some charity work and he reckons that’s doing enough. But where’s the money going to come from?’

It strikes me that at her age she shouldn’t have to worry about taking care of a grown man. Despite her own woes, she’s shopping for her ninety-nine-year-old neighbour who is house-bound and virtually bed-bound. ‘She’s ready to go,’ she says to me meaningfully.

An architect comes through my till and tells me that work is still madly busy. ‘Credit crunch or no credit crunch, it’s just not quiet now, not even with Christmas. If the recession is going to take effect, we’ll be the first to be affected. But hey, so far so good. So let’s see.’

A man in his thirties tells me he’s decided to rent out his home because he can’t afford the mortgage; he’s found a place to rent nearby instead. With rent rates sky high at the moment, the rental income he’s getting is covering the mortgage on the house he owns and some of the rent on the place he’s staying in.

The rest of the afternoon passes without event. Thursday is often a staring-vacantly-into-mid-air day. When I look across at the other Cogs, I see them all doing the same.

Friday, 19 December 2008

For the first time in six weeks someone comes through my checkout and, when I tell them the total is £72.97, they actually say, ‘That’s not too bad.’ Her entire shop is from the Sainsbury’s Basics range.

Everyone is starting to ask about their reward points. I redeem as little as £2.50 up to a staggering £130 for one couple who have been collecting their points all year. Now the yuletide spending has begun and the Christmas gift shopping is well under way—they’re all buying beauty gift packs by the dozen: soaps, creams, bath oils. It’s the thought that counts, but if you ask me, it looks like a pretty thoughtless gift. And just as I’m wondering what constitutes a deep and meaningful gift, a woman comes over and piles packets of cake cups, cake mixture, marshmallows, smarties and cake icing on to the belt.

‘Are you having a party?’ I ask.

‘Oh no—this lot are my Christmas gifts. I do food hampers.’

‘That’s a great idea!’ I exclaim.

‘I’m making cakes, biscuits, pasta, chicken soup—I’ll spend two days cooking, and then I’m done.’

The whole thing costs her £85—and there are gifts there for about twenty people. Now that’s a creative credit-crunching Christmas.

Another lady tells me she’s dishing out cash for Christmas. ‘There’s no thought in it and it takes the pleasure out of giving, but at least they can get what they want.’

A teenager and his mother discuss their Christmas plans with me; Mum’s looking forward to a couple of weeks off work with her family. ‘If only, though, I could get the kids away from their computer games.’

‘Tell me about it,’ says the lady behind her. ‘The Xboxes, Nintendos, Wiis—so much for spending time together at Christmas.’ In both sets of shopping trolleys they have, you guessed it, computer games.

More couples arguing today. And no one cares that I’m watching. One man storms off, receipt in hand, furious at the amount his wife has spent. I watch her follow him, red-faced, pushing the huge trolley and dragging her toddlers behind her.

Richard runs from till to till saying he wants to see us all get into the Christmas spirit from tomorrow.

‘I want to see tinsel, lots of tinsel. I want to see reindeer hairbands, Santa Claus, the lot.’

Saturday, 20 December 2008

I’m in the locker room loos tying my hair back with a piece of tinsel when Michelle walks in.

‘Are you doing any overtime next week?’ she asks.

‘No, I’m not. It’s too difficult with my kids. Are you?’

‘Same here—I just can’t. My daughters were ill last week so I had to call in sick. You know, I’m finding it really difficult with them—I just don’t know what to do. I really need to change my shifts from three to two.’

‘Why don’t you talk to Richard? Just tell him how tough it is.’

‘I know I should, I should…but…we’re still on probation, you know.’

She is obsessed with our probation. I want to tell her I’ve asked for a shift change but don’t.

‘If my situation doesn’t change, I might have to leave—you know,’ she says rubbing her eyes wearily.

Suddenly we realise that there is someone else in the toilets. So she changes her tune.

‘Well, maybe I won’t have to leave…I’ll see you downstairs.’ And she runs off.

This is my last shift before Christmas. I turn the corner towards the tills and walk on to a pantomime set. There are elves, female Father Christmases, two-legged reindeers, walking Christmas gifts…One of the supervisors is parcelled up inside a box wrapped with ribbon. Richard is dressed in a Santa Claus outfit with an enormous white beard. The others have all gone with a Sexy Santa theme: short skirts trimmed with tinsel, tight black belts pulled suggestively around the waist, red corsets lined with white fake fur, stockings, tails, reindeer hairbands—it is a Santa’s harem.

The local scouts are in, helping with packing (and raising money for charity) and I’ve got a garrulous Scout leader at my tills. She ends up talking to all my customers so I just listen.

Everyone wants to know about our Christmas hours and I tell them we’re open twenty-four hours a day next week. They must all be planning to come in then, because it’s certainly quieter today than I expected.

There are lots of unfamiliar faces around and I realise that they’re the extra staff taken on for Christmas. Others in the retail sector are cutting back on part-time staff and offering extra hours, but not so at Sainsbury’s, and there’s been no talk here of redundancies.

At the end of my shift, Richard calls me into his office. He gives me a Christmas card, thanks me for my work and offers me a Quality Street. He asks about my childcare situation, tells me he will consider it in light of the recent sackings, and give me an answer in the New Year. He then talks to me about being off sick. He asks me to go through what was wrong, how I informed them, and reminds me that I don’t get paid sick leave. He takes out a piece of paper and draws up a six-point list for every instance of sick leave:

1. Fill out a back-to-work form. And talk through what happens next.

2. Have a chat about why sick. Can Sainsbury’s do anything to support you?

3. Verbal warning.

4. Written warning.

5. Disciplinary action.

6. Dismissal.

‘Wow!’ I find myself spluttering. ‘But most people are sick about three times a year. What about the fact that we might pass on what we’ve got?’

He tells me politely that once everyone learns about these six stages, no one goes beyond the second or third. This, it seems, is Richard’s way of pulling us into line.

When I emerge, Michelle is next in the queue. She looks anxious and asks me what it’s about. I reassure her it’s a Christmas greeting and she relaxes. She comes to my till ten minutes later looking brow-beaten.

‘I asked him if I could change my shifts and he said no.’

‘Really? He’s not even going to consider it?’

‘No. He said someone has already asked him, so it’s too late for me.’ Her soft blue eyes are piercing when they stare.

I say nothing and I’m not sure why. As she walks away I feel uncomfortable. I know that the supermarket has already invested £2000 in training us, I’ve done OK in my assessments and I’m not scared of negotiating. Michelle is scared witless about losing her job, paranoid about our probationary period and doesn’t know how to play the game. It shouldn’t be my problem, yet I’m racked with guilt.

Tuesday, 23 December 2008

Today I go to my local Sainsbury’s to get my Christmas shopping at 9 p.m. and I’m seething because they’ve run out of rosemary. I peruse the other shelves and note that many are short of stock. What’s the point of being open twenty-four hours if the shelves are empty?

The newspapers are full to the brim with Christmas cheer; there’s no escape from recession stories, but I’ve not yet seen it translate on the shop floor. I am now becoming more certain that supermarkets will survive this recession. I read that nine out of ten retailers are already discounting—Sainsbury’s is one of them. Since I’ve been here, there has been a sell-out halfprice sale on toys, 25 per cent off on clothes and equally large discounts on booze.

Saturday, 27 December 2008

I get in early to do some shopping and as soon as I walk in I’m distracted by yet another half-price sale in the clothing department. I find myself rummaging through racks of clothes I definitely do not need. Sainsbury’s TU range is really a huge success story. It’s the reason the supermarket has broken into the top ten of the UK’s biggest clothing retailers, thanks to the number of shoppers, including myself, who combine their food shop with some retail therapy. According to a report in the Times supermarkets’ clothing ranges make up nearly a quarter of items of clothing sold in the UK. Asda has 10.3 per cent of the market, Primark 9.9 per cent, Tesco 9 per cent and Sainsbury’s, new to clothing, has 2.3 per cent of the market by volume. The reason for their success is that they focus on cheaper basic items of clothing. I know this myself, having picked up a £9 cardigan, £18 jeans and £4 indoor boots in recent weeks. I also read in the report that Sainsbury’s TU range is believed to have increased by 40 per cent in the last year, making an estimated £300 million in sales. The report says that its top performer is thought to be lingerie, and I can certainly vouch for this judging by the number of bras and knickers that come down my till several times a day alongside the tinned tomatoes and kitchen foil.

I take a peek at the newspapers at the kiosk and all the front pages are reporting the record-breaking Boxing Day sales. People have been queuing around the block from the early hours and there have been stampedes around the country. On an inside page there’s an editorial reporting that, despite the Boxing Day boom, the New Year is going to bring spending cuts, job insecurity and a long recession. It claims that people have started planning cutbacks and aiming to live more cheaply, although I have yet to see it.

The high-octane sales atmosphere is making some shoppers tense. My first customer today grumbles at me about the intense traffic in the retail park nearby—people are trying to get to Comet, Argos and Homebase. ‘What’s wrong with them? They’ve all gone Comet mad.’ The couple behind him tell me they went to the big shopping centre for the sales but when they saw people arguing in the car park they turned around and drove here instead. Then a middle-aged couple tell me they queued up from 5 a.m. outside Next and are pleased that, while they spent £300, they saved £300 in discounts. He doesn’t let the fact that he had to spend £300 to save £300 bother him. But when I ask if he’s worried about the recession, a different story emerges. He works for BT broadband.

‘There’s no such thing as a job for life there any more. They’re making redundancies across the board, but I think for the moment my job is safe. Who knows for how long, though?’

Another customer, a mum with a three-year-old, has spent £200 on clothes in Oasis, Principles and Next. ‘I’m not letting myself think about the recession today—ask me in a few days.’ She pauses. ‘But when you’ve got kids, life is so difficult that you need to spoil yourself, don’t you?’

‘And spending makes you feel good, even if it’s a temporary high,’ I add. She nods, but I see a small frown starting to develop across her forehead.

Most people I ask haven’t been to the sales yet. They’re all saying they just can’t face the shops at the moment. One woman in her thirties has the recession very much on her mind. She says she has decided against any sales shopping ‘because everyone has got to tighten their belts for the rough ride ahead. Things being as they are, I’m just grateful to have a job.’

I eavesdrop on two middle-aged ladies talking. One is chastising the other for dragging her into Sainsbury’s. ‘It’s only been two days and here we are shopping again, it’s sickening.’

When I ask people about their New Year plans, the vast majority say they are going to celebrate at home quietly, while one or two are having small soirées, saying, ‘It’s cheaper than going out.’

For the New Year penny-pinchers, paying in cash is truly the only way to control spending. Studies have long shown that it’s much more painful than swiping a card, and stimulates a region in the brain linked with discomfort which is anaesthetised by credit cards. And that’s exactly what one customer is thinking. She plonks her shopping on my belt and announces, ‘No more than £21.’ When it gets to £20.33, she ruthlessly takes something off the belt and pays in cash, and I crown her queen of thrift.

One man shopping with his six-year-old twins has crackers, a chicken roast, root vegetables, wrapping paper and bottles of wine in his shop.

‘Are you celebrating Christmas late?’ I blurt out before I can stop myself.

‘Tomorrow—seems a good way to save money.’ The crackers are the Different by Design range and absolutely stunning—he’s picked them up for a bargain £6.

I hear one of my first bona fide redundancy stories today. A customer tells me her daughter was made redundant two months ago and now can’t find a job.

‘She used to be a secretary at a big estate agent’s in town and she’s been hunting high and low but there is just no work to be found. She’s started looking in retail now and, fingers crossed, she’s in the running for a secretarial job at Tesco.’

At last I’m someone’s favourite checkout girl. A lively, colourful family I’ve served a few times have started to seek me out. I see them standing by the checkouts scanning the tills—and when I wave at them, they hurry over with big smiles. I’ve finally made it.

‘I was looking for you,’ says Mum. ‘I was terrified you’d been sacked after we were chatting to you, and the man behind us was so angry.’

‘He was fine, don’t worry. We certainly don’t get into trouble for talking to customers here.’

Her thirty-something son joins them with some extra groceries in his arms. We hold our usual spelling bee competition and he teases me for misspelling a word a few weeks ago. I love this family. There are two generations of them shopping together and Dad, the patriarch, always pays, although not before grunting loudly about the price of food shopping.

There is a big fracas at the front of the store and it transpires that the lottery machine has crashed. Unsurprisingly, there are a lot of angry customers complaining about it around the store. I find myself apologising on behalf of Sainsbury’s and feeling like a moron when I’m told, ‘Well, it’s not YOUR fault, is it?’

Before I leave to go home I pick up my discounted kettle and go to Rebecca’s till. She tells me that the person sacked for dipping into the tills is Bill, the young man I heard bragging about his collection of shining stars a few weeks ago. It’s raised the level of suspicion amongst management, she says. During a meeting with Richard she witnessed one of the other managers showing Richard a receipt where the checkout girl had reduced something from £25 to 25p and said he suspected ‘she’s up to something’. ‘I get the feeling that the eye of suspicion here is really strong and we all come under detailed surveillance.’

On my way out I hear one of the Cogs talking about her shifts in the last two or three days before Christmas. ‘There were queues all the way down the aisles, every single checkout was heaving. Unbelievable…If I hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t have believed it.’

The radio goes on as I drive home and the lottery crash is making the news. It wasn’t just a local event; computer terminals crashed in shops around the country leaving thousands unable to buy tickets. It’s been reported like a national disaster. The only other news is the sales frenzy; half-price cuts, 75 per cent and even an unprecedented 90 per cent off sales. It’s an insane scramble to beat the credit crunch. People have been queuing since dawn to get into some shops and there have been fights breaking out over handbags. After the news I listen to a programme about how to save money on food shopping during the recession by cooking more, making a shopping list and paying in cash.

Saturday, 3 January 2009

The New Year starts with grim news for the retail world—shop closures. There are more Woolies shutting up shop and now it’s Adams kids wear. I think the winners in all of this will be the supermarkets—they already provide the Woolies style bric-a-brac and low-cost children’s clothes. Rumours are circulating that Sainsbury’s may buy the Adams brand. One insolvency specialist has predicted the collapse of between 10 and 15 national retail chains by mid-January. Others are saying that at least 15-20 retailers are extremely weak financially and that one shop in ten will close in the coming months.

I’m in the locker room, squeezing my over-sized bag into my tiny locker when Michelle walks in. She’s a bit cool and barely says hello before heading down for her shift. I’m puzzled—I hope everything’s OK with her girls. Before I get on to my till I have a quick chat with a twenty-year-old student called Nick. I overheard him being reprimanded by a till captain a few weeks ago about a break issue. He tells me he’s been here a year—and he isn’t happy. He needs time off around his exams and this is proving difficult because he needs a job to get him through college. ‘If I don’t have a job after I finish college this place will be to blame.’

I talk to a man in his fifties who works as an eye consultant at a hospital. He tells me that jobs are being cut in the NHS and he shrugs his shoulders wearily, telling me he’s not sure that even his own job is safe. A checkout girl from M&S comes to my till telling me she never shops at M&S because it’s too expensive. She hasn’t noticed it getting quieter, although she’s well aware that the store isn’t doing too well. She has her bags for re-use with her, saying it’s a habit she’s had to learn after watching customers reluctantly cough up for bags. I’m turning into a bag obsessive myself. The supermarket insists we ask customers at the start of their shop if they are re-using their bags—the red prompt on my screen pops up before every transaction. And that’s where it starts to go wrong.

‘Do you have your own bags or do you need ours?’ I always ask, leaning down below the till in preparation to tear off some.

‘I’ve got my own, thanks.’ And then about a dozen or so emerge. For every bag a customer brings back they get a Nectar point. This is the main motivation for most customers.