THERE aren’t many places I hate more in the world than Tesco.
Did my six long years of half-assery as an employee have something to do with my bitter stance? Nah, I’d feel the same whether or not I’d worked there.
(But to all the people who complain checkout workers always look semi-comatose, scanning through groceries is the real-life equivalent of counting sheep. Cut them some slack.)
Nope, what brings me down is the small-worldliness of the big T.
I popped into a store to pick up some lunch today, and spotted two people from my old stomping ground of Tesco Sheerness.
These people are closer to 30 than 20, but look like they’d be the first to run onto the shop floor for rumble hour (the period every day between 3pm and 4pm when you tidy up the shelves and make sure everything looks tip-top, if you must know).
Luckily they didn’t recognise me (or chose to ignore me - either’s good) because I don’t think I could have dealt with the conversation.
“You’ve changed stores. Well, you’ve got to shake things up now and again, haven’t you? So what’s new? Nothing? Oh.”
Okay, that might be a bit harsh but Tesco workers are my own personal Dementors (those creepy, cloaked monsters from Harry Potter, fact fans). Watching them amble about the sterile store, I can feel the life force being sucked from my body.
I guess it’s a reminder that had I decided to settle for an easy buck instead of moving onto new things, I could be one now.
Is there anything more depressing than looking at a line of elderly checkout women who have probably been there nearly as long as I have been alive? Not to me.
Whenever I’m inside a Tesco store I immediately feel the urge to get out of there just as strongly as I did as a worker.
I bought my lunch and left quickly.
*Although this column is Tesco-centric, I don’t wish to discriminate against Sainsbury’s, Asda, Waitrose and all the other supermarket chains. I’m sure you’re all equally horrible.