Technology techschmology

I really like the idea of self-service checkouts. Not for huge loads of groceries perhaps, but for small baskets and getting lunch and so on I think they’re a really good idea. When they’re not such a good idea is when, for whatever reason, they don’t work properly.

I was in M&S today. I picked up about half a dozen items; drink, sandwich, crisps, a paper, and then headed for the checkout. Seeing there was a queue and wanting to break the mould that English people are for some reason attracted to standing in lines, I veered away to the empty self-service checkout.

Firstly, I was accosted by the M&S employee handling the machines. “This is stupid” I thought, “it’s ‘self-service’ – what is the point if I have to have a conversation with an employee anyway? Aren’t these machines supposed to save time?” I’d been starving hungry for the previous half an hour (evidently Crunchy Nut Cornflakes do NOT keep hunger locked up til lunch) and my temper was short. I was curt with her and having explained in clipped syllables that I understood that I had to pay by card rather than cash, she buggered off and left me to my business. I blipped through my sandwich and so forth. Unfortunately when it got to my copy of The Guardian it asked me to enter the cost, and then informed me to wait for assistance.

How complicated can it possibly be to type in the cost of a paper when the cost is written on said paper? Obviously, I had to be confirmed by the employee to make sure I wasn’t trying to buy it for 10p (which, in retrospect, was a lot more than it was worth), and this meant that the woman I had already been rude to had to come back over and help, and as a result talked to me as though I was mentally challenged. I probably deserved it for being so surly, for strutting in there with my “I can work this simple piece of technology” attitude and then being foiled by a system that doesn’t even know how much it’s newspapers are worth.

Anyway, I’m not doing that again. I could do without short, ugly old women getting one up on me, particularly when my blood-sugar level has sunk into the red. Still considering the fact that I paid nearly £3 for a sandwich, you’d have thought that Marks could meet expectations by creating a self-checkout that actually saves time, rather than wasting it. Another time, in another shop with an equally useless, I recall the machine informing me there was an "unexpected item in bagging area". How unexpected could an item in the bagging area possibly be? It's not like someone had just whipped their cock out.

Just another example of how simplifying the system has overcomplicated it yet again. I despair.

Seeing is Believing

Standing on the station platform this morning, along with myself and a rag-tag collection of tired misfits, was a soldier. I cannot be more specific than this, other than to say that he appeared to be in some kind of TA uniform. He was young though. Maybe a trainee. With the number of airfields and bases dotted about the county, seeing someone in uniform isn’t that much of a surprise.

There’s something about men in uniform, isn’t there? Not that I wanted to be whisked away in some mighty army machine, but there’s something kind of impressive about any person who’s willing to risk their own life and safety in the pursuit of the protection of others. Unknown others in fact – doctors, politicians, criminals, bank clerks – everyone. To protect everyone without prejudice seems like a pretty noble goal. Firemen, policemen, even doctors all command this same kind of respect the moment they don their uniform, whether it be a white coat and stethoscope, or army fatigues. It got me thinking about how important appearance is; how particular colours and garments cause us to react in different ways. For example, men in lab coats always make me feel a little nervous. Doctors wear them as they pour over charts, tutting over what could be wrong with you. Scientists wear them as they concoct dangerous chemical mixes. Men in police uniform seem to silently demand that you move out of their way and let them through. Whether it’s the people or the uniform I’m not sure, but there’s something surly about their demeanour that somehow always draws out of me a mild feeling of resentment. “Somebody” I think “has given these people too much authority.”

Even a suit can command respect. My father wore a suit to work every day for years, and to me he was an assertive and powerful man. I’ve always thought men look better in a suit and tie, though whether that’s some kind of weird Freudian thing, I don’t know. It’s important to never underestimate the importance of appearance. In fact if anything I probably worry about it too much. I don’t sit around and agonise about what skirt to wear for hours, but I do go into shops, look at clothes and think “What would people think of me if I wore this?” I see giant logos like “Bench” written on stuff. I’ve got no objection to a clothing line with that name, but is it the kind of thing I want printed on my backside the way they like to make their jogging pants? Furthermore, if I started wearing jogging pants, wouldn’t I look a bit on the chavvie side? Am I comfortable with that; is that an image I’d want to uphold?

Buying clothes has become, it would seem, an increasingly difficult activity. I like clothes with little or no logo, bold, cold colours, and other than that… what? Do I even have a “look”? I don’t think I do. I’m not a thesp, not a goth, not a chav, a gamer, a rocker, or a preppie looking idiot, I’m just… non-descript, which I’m not convinced is any better. We dress ourselves in a certain way because we like to feel that it expresses our character, but how much of an individual can any of us be when we’re all shopping in the same places, reading the same magazines and choosing one of a pre-determined set of looks created by someone else over the last 100 years or more?

I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.

Jury’s still out.