Spitting Bullets

Having carefully selected some fairly mundane items of shopping from my local supermarket and after shunting a woman dressed in her pyjamas up the back-side with the corner of my trolley whilst she debated whether to buy skinless sausages or the conventional kind, I eventually reached the checkout (also known as a ‘TILL’) where I was expected to pay for the experience.

I of course made the mistake of standing heavy, tall objects alone on the conveyer belt without support, so that each time the belt juddered forwards they  fell and then crushed the softer items I intended to purchase (tomatoes, lettuce, grapes etc) – but sure enough, once the previous customer had finished bagging the fiftieth tin of special offer baked beans, had paid and then left, it was my turn.

Talking to Tesco’s Finest

As I said, it was my turn, but almost straight away there was a problem.

“I’m sorry, you can only buy one of these” said the supermarket employee holding aloft the offending second packet of paracetamol.

“Oh?”, I said, in fained disbelief.

“It’s company policy.”

“Why is that?”, I said, as I always do when this happens.

“Because it’s the law.”

“The Law?” I said.

“Yes, it’s the law” she said.

“In that case, can I pop back in and buy another packet in a few minutes?”, I said, again, as I always do.

“Oh yes, that would be fine” she confirmed

Tesco lacks irony

The sheer lack of irony was incredible:

Firstly, the supermarket policy of allowing one packet of paracetamol to be sold per transaction isn’t in fact necessary because this law doesn’t exist.

Secondly, the supermarket must believe that I have not the ability of sight – otherwise, I would know that the packet has a ‘dosage’ specified on it which has been printed in words.

Thirdly, if they believe that I have no sight or am disadvantaged by the lack of my ability to read and therefore feel the need to patronise me in this way in order that I will not self-harm, is it not discriminatory that they don’t print everything everywhere in the supermarket in Braille on the off-chance that I might actually be blind? Perhaps a set of headphones handed to me at the entrance with the entire stock list being read out on loop with directions on how to find things, what those things are, where they’ve come from and their possible uses – ‘TOILET ROLLS – QUILTED – POWDER PINK – walk to third aisle, halfway down, left-hand side, top shelf – made in a factory handling paper in Milton Keynes, wiping poo from one’s bottom (may contain traces of paper)’.

Fourthly, they must believe that I and the other 62 million residents of the UK are teetering dangerously and uncontrollably towards a suicidal abyss – a conclusion which of course would be based on…erm, wait, let me think – their insurance company’s premiums?

Fifthly, if I wanted to kill myself, I can assure my readers (and Tesco) that it is highly likely that my first priority would not include a trip to the supermarket to stock up on several loaves of bread, six pints of milk and a jar of capers in sherry vinegar. If I should ever want to kill myself, I can promise here and now that Tesco will not be the place from which I will acquire the necessary items to carry out the deed nor will it be the place in which I will commit the deed (although it may well be the place that drives me to the deed).

Sixthly, the supermarket’s ‘concern’ for my well-being seems just a teeny-weeny bit disingenuous once one realises that if I had placed a conveyor belt divider between my shopping and ‘another person’s’ single packet of paracetamol – that other person being me – they would have sold the second packet to me anyway.

Pyjama Woman

Finally and on a serious note, if I had wanted to kill myself, I’d have followed Pyjama Woman’s lead, bought several packets of ‘skinless sausages’ (there’s no limit on how many of these poisonous objects one can buy), smeared them all over my body, obtained a train ticket to Battersea during a full moon and shouted “COME GET ME FIDO!”.

Copyright © 2010 Spitting Bullets