Sainsbury’s has long had a special place in my heart. The weekly shop at the Orange Store offered excitement to a child and a comforting familiarity that my adult self has found hard to shake off. But roll on the decades and I’m standing, dismayed, in my local Sainsbury’s.
The supermarket in my London suburb was a friendly place and the air over the checkouts rang with chatter between customers and the long-standing staff. But on this day a curious silence reigned. Half the checkouts had gone and had been replaced by a ‘self-checkout’ zone. Disconnected from their usual posts, the staff wore rattled expressions. They’d been told they would still have jobs, one said, helping customers ‘on the floor’.
After that, I went to Sainsbury’s less and less. When I did so, I avoided the self-checkouts: instead, I chose to stand resolutely in line in the hope of being served by a person.
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