A little while ago, self-service checkouts were finally installed in my local Morrisons. And long overdue they were too, if you're asking me. Not that I'm antisocial or anything. Far from it, I spend my days crouched over a laptop in a book-lined study (alright, book-lined garden shed) because I'm an incorrigible people person.
It's just that shopping for groceries is hard enough at the best of times. And people - even those undemanding souls who man the tills - are so exhausting. You disagree? Does a little chat at the counter give you a warm glow and send you off with a spring in your step? Then bravo, you're one of those fine, noble beings who can draw energy and sustenance from casual human encounters. It's not like that for me. People sap my vital essence. They don't mean to, but they do.
And it's not as if supermarkets aren't already pretty challenging environments for the introvert. Toddle along on an average day, and the aisles are crowded with a cross-section of society, all reaching for the same packet of blueberry muffins as you. So you'll forgive me if the whole thing makes me want to tuck a frozen chicken under my arm and dash for the exit. And you'll understand if the last thing I want to do is stop and exchange pleasantries with the person on the cash register, however engaging he or she might be.
What makes it even more tricky is when you see the same face at the checkout twice running. Last time, by some miracle, you managed to blurt out something reasonably warm and coherent. This time, you draw a blank. Well, to be fair, perhaps you're distracted by the way this helpful individual has put your sliced bread at the bottom of a carrier bag and is now piling heavy tins on top of it. That poor loaf will emerge later with the racked, twisted look of something that's come out of a farm animal's backside.
Meanwhile, of course, he or she is judging you. How couldn't they? A person is what they eat, literally. So as they whisk each item over the scanner, it's like they're reading the barcode of your soul. "Okay!" you want to shout as they turn over in their hands the first of far too many ready-meals. "Alright! I admit it! My girlfriend walked out on me again, and this time she's not coming back! Satisfied?"
Therefore you can imagine my reaction when, not long ago, I noticed a new, high tech bay to one side of the traditional checkouts. Two rows of attractive, capable-looking machines, each with a placidly shining screen and an illuminated pole to indicate that it was fully functional and raring to go. It was a lot to take in, but it spelt out one thing to me immediately: in all my future years of shopping at Morrisons, I'd never have to speak to a human being again!
I experienced such a quiver of delight that a number of items went bounding from my overloaded basket. Heart thumping, I approached a machine and began. Ten minutes later, my heart was still thumping, but only because it was now bloated with hatred. I loathed this machine. I loathed it so much I wanted to rip out its innards and pelt them with lychees.
It had turned on me savagely before I'd even started. I'd fiddled with the carrier bags, and a big red bar leapt across the screen saying, "Wrong weight!" A similar red bar appeared when my carton of milk, already scanned and bagged, fell over on its side. Then the machine started trying to scan the items still in my basket before I had a chance to lift them out. All the time, a voice wittered on, "Please put the item in the bag ... please take the item out of the bag ... please wait for assistance ..."
Assistance. That was what I needed - assistance. And a crowbar. A lad in a Morrisons uniform came up and quelled the beast with a swipe card. He had to repeat the process twice before my groceries were finally bagged and paid for. On his second intervention, he murmured, "Progress, eh?"
He smiled. I smiled - actually, I simpered. I was shocked to find the two of us experiencing a small moment of camaraderie. We could have been back in the Blitz, German flying bombs puttering overhead. "Progress, eh?" And to be honest, the sensation wasn't all that disagreeable. But it was pretty tiring.
So had I learnt an important lesson about human fellowship? Not really. Jump forward a week. I'm standing there with my basket, hesitating between the self-service machines and the express checkout. I cast my mind back. Okay, so the machines and I got off to a rocky start. But am I going to give up just like that? Surely this time everything will work out fine. The red bars will bother someone else. I won't have to speak to anyone. My vital essence will not be depleted. I shrug and head for the beckoning screens. Some dreams are too beautiful to die.