Loe raamatut: «The Checkout Girl»

The Checkout Girl
TAZEEN AHMAD
My Life on the Supermarket Conveyor Belt

Dedication

For Cogs everywhere

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Saturday, 8 November 2008

Sunday, 9 November 2008

Monday, 10 November 2008

Thursday, 13 November 2008

Friday, 14 November 2008

Saturday, 15 November 2008

Sunday, 16 November 2008

Thursday, 20 November 2008

Thursday, 27 November 2008

Friday, 28 November 2008

Saturday, 29 November 2008

Thursday, 4 December 2008

Friday, 5 December 2008

Saturday, 6 December 2008

Saturday, 13 December 2008

Wednesday, 17 December 2008

Thursday, 18 December 2008

Friday, 19 December 2008

Saturday, 20 December 2008

Tuesday, 23 December 2008

Saturday, 27 December 2008

Saturday, 3 January 2009

Sunday, 4 January 2009

Thursday, 8 January 2009

Friday, 9 January 2009

Saturday, 10 January 2009

Thursday, 15 January 2009

Friday, 16 January 2009

Saturday, 17 January 2009

Friday, 23 January 2009

Saturday, 24 January 2009

Friday, 30 January 2009

Saturday, 31 January 2009

Friday, 6 February 2009

Saturday, 7 February 2009

Friday, 13 February 2009

Saturday, 14 February 2009

Tuesday, 17 February 2009

Friday, 20 February 2009

Saturday, 21 February 2009

Friday, 27 February 2009

Saturday, 28 February 2009

Thursday, 5 March 2009

Tuesday, 10 March 2009

Friday, 13 March 2009

Saturday, 14 March 2009

Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Friday, 20 March 2009

Saturday, 21 March 2009

Monday, 23 March 2009

Wednesday, 25 March 2009

Friday, 27 March 2009

Saturday, 28 March 2009

Friday, 3 April 2009

Saturday, 4 April 2009

Friday, 10 April 2009

Saturday, 11 April 2009

Friday, 17 April 2009

Friday, 24 April 2009

Saturday, 25 April 2009

Friday, 1 May 2009

Saturday, 2 May 2009

Friday, 8 May 2009

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

Except for a short stint in a superstore as a student many years ago, my experience of supermarkets had been the same as most people’s; I’d rush in to complete the dull but essential chore that is the weekly shop, I’d have no time for checkout girls and their small talk. I’d rebuff offers of help tactlessly, make demands as though they were machines programmed to serve me without complaint, and promptly forget their names and faces seconds after rushing out. Little did I know that, behind the identity badges, unflattering uniforms and quiet smiles were individuals taking note of my every quirk, comment and foible.

Never again will I shop the same way. And neither will you.

When I began my six-month career as a checkout girl, the country was reeling from the possibility that we were headed for a full-blown recession. President Obama’s election brought new optimism around the world but could not disguise the doom and gloom that lay ahead. The credit crunch and financial instability were one thing, but in the early autumn of 2008 things were about to get rocky for every man, woman and child in this country—as we slid into the worst recession the world has seen for decades.

Until that point the main casualties of the financial crisis were the banking institutions—Northern Rock, Lehman Brothers, Citigroup, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, along with mortgage lenders and insurance companies. Most ordinary people were still watching developments from a safe distance. However, unemployment figures were creeping up, redundancies and job losses were looming and food prices were on the rise.

As a mother running a busy home and working in a volatile industry I had started to count my own pennies. My grocery shopping was now leaving my wallet disconcertingly light. I’d push my trolley to the car park while staring at the receipt, aghast that the food in my bags now cost well in excess of a hundred pounds: I knew I had to make cutbacks. It was after one such shopping trip, clutching my hefty bill, that I turned back to look at the checkouts and it dawned on me—this was the front line of the recession, where the reality of the downturn really hit home. And that’s how I embarked on my quest to see what a billion-pound hole in our economy would really mean for us all.

Someone, with not much time for reporters, once told me that ‘Journalists always report from the outside in and so only ever see the story from a superficial vantage point.’ My episodes of immersive, experiential or undercover journalism have allowed me the privilege of reporting from the inside out. This requires a degree of individual sacrifice, intrusion, duplicity and commitment that usually leaves me slightly unhinged. However awkward it is personally, thankfully it serves the purpose of shedding light on the truth in a way that turning up with my notebook, pen and press pass never could do. This is that truth.

Why did I choose Sainsbury’s? Actually it chose me. Last autumn, jobs in retail were hard to come by and I searched and applied for a number of positions in various supermarkets before this vacancy cropped up. I had to complete an in-depth online assessment and attend an interview: I got the job. In my first month, as the crisis deepened, I was convinced that, like many other retailers, the supermarkets would eventually fall victim to the downturn. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I sat at my checkout, week in week out, for six months observing first-hand how the nation was adapting to the onset of what would soon be described as the worst global recession since the 1930s. At first, customers were spending hard and most appeared unruffled by the storm brewing ahead. And then as the year drew to an end, I saw a shift: money-saving tactics kicked in, savvy food choices were being made, offers were hunted down and customers were watching the pennies carefully—the recession was starting to bite. I witnessed for myself how the average British family was suffering, as people opened up to me about their money troubles. And some didn’t stop there; I listened, mouth agape, as customers launched into full-blown confessions about their personal lives, divulging their most private thoughts.

To us they are just cogs in the supersonic wheel of our supermarkets, but Checkout Girls and Guys—or Cogs, as I secretly referred to them—have incredible stories to tell and intriguing interwoven lives of their own. Behind the tills, in the shopping aisles, across the customer service desk, beyond the doors leading to the back of the store and upstairs in the canteen and locker rooms, family dramas are played out, love affairs and friendships flourish and sometimes wilt. Here, several members of one family work together, along with friends who grew up together, neighbours, former school friends and flat-mates. At times it’s like a small, cosmopolitan village, at others like a big, bustling, multi-racial family. And on a daily basis they welcome us as shoppers right into the heart of their community while unwittingly becoming spectators to our personal and financial dramas. Against all my expectations I walked straight on to the set of a gripping soap opera in which all of us have a walk on part. The Cogs I met were in Sainsbury’s, but they are in every supermarket and in every town—and they are watching you. This is their story.

The Checkout Girl
Saturday, 8 November 2008

So here I am. Day One. My hair’s tied back, my shoes are low-heeled and sensible but even though I’ve got my orange name-badge on, I’m still me. That may be because I haven’t been given my bright blue polyester polo shirt and high-waisted, wide-bottomed, narrow-legged, creased-down-the-front trousers yet.

At Sainsbury’s, becoming a checkout girl or ‘Cog’ requires a two-day training course. Staff recruitment is serious business here, and as I wait in the canteen I’m given a quick summary of what we’ll learn today: the supermarket’s raison d’être, history, financial status, aims and objectives, health and safety rules and, most significantly, its guiding mottos:

‘Do you want your bonus? Then, always smile, take the customer to the product and offer an alternative. Above all, be friendly.’

The mantras are many in number and imprinted on beige-cream A4 pages, crumpling a little at the corners, stuck all the way up the stairwell. And right next to the clocking-in and (equally importantly for all supermarket workers) the clocking-out machine is a poster signed by shop-floor staff all promising to ‘smile more’, ‘be more helpful’, and ‘treat the customer like someone special’. These are the Cogs’ countless messages pledging allegiance and promising to be better at their jobs. It reads like a giant farewell card written by signees at gun point.

Our trainer finds it impossible to refrain from bragging about how well this store is doing.

‘The credit crunch has not affected us,’ we are told. ‘We are set to take a million by the end of this week,’ she crows, smiling smugly. ‘We’ve already taken £16,000 on clothes today.’ Her grin is now wider than a Cheshire cat.

We have to sign the contract on the spot and hand it back immediately. When I ask if I can get a copy, I am brashly told, ‘You’ll get one once Personnel have signed it,’ with no indication given of when that might be.

Sickness policy: There is no sick pay for six months and if you are ill you only get statutory sick pay.

Holidays: You need to book that now.

Overtime: Whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to put in extra hours and swap shifts. ‘It’s a matter of “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”’

Breaks: One hour unpaid lunch for checkout staff if you do a full day. But depending on the number of hours worked this could be a fifteen-, twenty-, thirty- or forty-five-minute paid break. On top of lunch? Instead of lunch? I’m not clear and she doesn’t provide clarification either.

The locker comes at a deposit of £5, so technically that’s an hour from your pay docked already. And don’t even think about clocking in until AFTER you’ve been to your locker and are ready to head on to the shop floor.

Sainsbury’s is at the top of its game, she tells us. However, Tesco has inconveniently pipped it to the No. 1 post, and Asda, with its marriage to Walmart, has shoved Sainsbury’s into third place.

‘I don’t think we’ll ever be No. 1,’ says our trainer wistfully. ‘We compete with those two on price, but M&S and Waitrose on quality.’ Whispering for effect, she adds, ‘I shop at Marks and Spencer when I want something special, but some people actually come here for the same reason.’

We are told about the mystery customer who shops in the store to test the full Sainsbury’s experience. Today I learn that this supermarket’s philosophy is almost entirely defined by the Mystery Customer Measure (MCM), and the bonus that could line everyone’s pocket if they give the store the thumbs-up. He or she will come in twice a month and sample every single aspect of the store—the petrol station, the café, the toilets, the shop floor, customer service, checkouts. If the store gets an average rating of 80 per cent or more over a full period, everyone gets a small bonus. ‘We’ve had a couple of 80-plus per cents,’ we’re told. There are also additional incentives known as ‘shining stars’ for staff to go that extra mile to please customers. If the mystery shopper (or in fact any customer) mentions the name of a particularly helpful member of staff then a £10 voucher is awarded to the named employee. ‘Justin’—Justin King, Chief Executive of Sainsbury’s—‘has been so generous this year,’ we are told. ‘Above and beyond all the normal store cut prices, he’s given us an extra 15 per cent discount to shop with this Christmas. We’re being paid to take it away, basically.’

We spend the next few hours familiarising ourselves with the store layout and learn about the multiple ranges: Basics (cheap and cheerful), Taste the Difference (high-end foods), Different by Design (non-foods luxury range), TU (bargain-basement clothes), Be Good to Yourself (healthy range), So Organics (organic food). But getting to know my fellow Cogs is the most enjoyable part of the day. We are all struggling to swallow the corporate spiel we’re being spun. I have to admit that I had preconceived ideas as to who these people were, and they are certainly not what I expect: ex-professionals, trainee professionals and soon-to-be professionals. They include a law graduate who is going to travel for two hours each way to work the night shift, a middle-aged woman with a long and illustrious career behind her who, in tough times, cannot find another job. And then there is Rebecca, who I love after exactly zero point two minutes; a vivacious, petite redhead in her mid-thirties who battles to disguise her sarcastic deadpan sense of humour. She is training and working all week long and has taken on weekend work following a dramatic pay cut. She has two teenage sons to put through college soon so ‘needs must’ she tells me privately. Throughout the day, we catch each other’s eye when we should be paying attention and fight to stop ourselves from collapsing into a heap of giggles.

By the end of Day One, I’ve learned that those at the bottom of the rung have about as many rights as the frozen chicken sitting in aisle 33. And that, if I’m to believe what I’m told, the recession is as far from this particular branch of Sainsbury’s as the TU range is from haute couture fashion. But I look at my new colleagues and can’t help thinking that, for as long as the country is in economic meltdown, here on the supermarket floor is where the recession is really going to make its mark. The real victims are the new breed of supermarket staff created by this financial crisis.

Sunday, 9 November 2008

Induction Day Two does not transpire. Our trainer has sustained a neck injury and so we end up spending a day on the shop floor. A trolley full of health and beauty products, abandoned at the till, is pushed in my direction. My first task is to take each item back to its rightful home on the shelves, and soon going around in circles has me dizzier than a tail-chasing dog. It takes me a wet-behind-the-ears forty-five minutes to realise the best approach is to sort the trolley into different categories according to shop layout rather than pushing it back and forth up the same aisles again and again. When I attempt to return some chocolates to their home in aisle 24 I’m over-whelmed by an urge to shovel the entire packet into my mouth.

Next up, the customer service desk. After a few hours of agonising repetition I know that this is not the place for me. The refund, refund, refund nature of the desk means it’s no more than a factory. Chatting is out of the question and the customers are more irritable than Sir Alan Sugar after a round with his apprentice wannabes. By the end of the day, Anne-Marie’s unwavering courtesy, patience and total professionalism—in the face of hostile, grumpy and impatient customers—are awe-inspiring. She doesn’t crack once, works without pause and still manages to be polite and courteous not just to the customers but also to me, with my annoying questions. Occasionally I manage to show a customer to their longed-for product in the right aisle after walking in circles for several minutes with the customer in hot (confused) pursuit. The rest of the time I’m jotting product barcodes on receipts and devising reasons for why the goods were returned. I take note of the number of times people come over with bills where an item has been charged twice at the tills in error. After three hours doing this I am told that on Sundays you only get twenty minutes for lunch, so off I go muttering under my breath.

When I return there is still spare salt to rub in my wound. My new friend, Rebecca, and I are given what looks like a million leaflets detailing the in-store promotions—50 per cent off toys, 25 per cent off wine and 25 per cent reduction on TU clothing. We have to hand these to customers entering the shop. I spend the first ten minutes enthusiastically greeting every customer with an all-American ‘Hi!’ and the pressure to treat each shopper like a mystery customer is so intense that I find myself taking a seven-year-old to the card section and smiling obsequiously, you know, just in case. The zeal fades quickly though when there are no smiles, barely a hello in return, and without exception, no eye contact. Thankfully, I’m asked to return to customer service to help out. I can’t wait to be behind the desk again, but feel rotten for leaving Rebecca distributing leaflets. I tell her we’ll do a swap in ten minutes. After five minutes of guilt-ridden angst I find an excuse to get her back to help. Once she’s made her escape she’s willing to do whatever it takes to avoid leafleting and spends the next couple of hours loitering in the clothing department. Never again will I refuse a leaflet crumpled into my hand on the street and nor will I frown when I discover I’ve been handed five rather than just the one.

And then suddenly there they are. The words I’m dreading emerging from my own mouth and I’m hearing them after being here for less than two days. A young man is taken off checkouts, placed at customer service for five minutes and then promptly sent straight back to checkouts. ‘I hate this place,’ he mutters as he walks away.

Towards the end of my day, at 4 p.m., I’m asked to check if anyone wants help with packing. I run from till to till asking the checkout assistants if they need my help. They all smile politely and decline. I’ve asked most of them when one finally has the good sense to say, ‘Well, that’s up to the customer, isn’t it?’

Once I’ve recovered from my idiocy, one lady takes me up on my offer saying, ‘Only if you’re good at it.’ ‘It’s one of my life skills,’ I respond. She laughs, not realising that in this job it’s the only one that counts.

Later I help a young mum pack. She seems to have decided to clothe her entire family in the TU range. Struggling to find the right amount of money, she takes one T-shirt off the bill. Seconds after she’s said goodbye to me, I spot her at customer service returning the lot.

Rebecca repeats at least half a dozen times today, ‘I’ve got to get a job at Waitrose.’ But how will it be better? I find myself wondering.

Monday, 10 November 2008

I put my uniform on for the first time. I haven’t worn polyester since the eighties so it takes some adjusting to. When I look at myself in the mirror, I want to ask where the pasta sauce is. Unsurprisingly, Husband falls about in hysterics. Once he has composed himself he tries to take a picture. He’s laughing so hard the picture is blurred.

Today is till training. A solemn-faced, gum-chewing supervisor trains a few of us including Rebecca and Adil, from the general merchandise department, who has spent months avoiding his turn on the tills. During those six hours we learn about the slide, scan and pass technique that we’re told Sainsbury’s has developed to avoid staff getting back pain and attempting to sue the supermarket. We have to aim for seventeen items per minute (IPM); ‘If you don’t maintain it, we’ll find out,’ says our plain-speaking till trainer. All our actions are accountable; CCTV, electronic monitoring, assessments, secret observation, clocking in and out, customer and colleague feedback. With cameras in every nook and cranny there is no escape. ‘In places you least expect them,’ the trainer tells us ominously. Let that be a warning to us all. If they are doing their job, by now they must have caught me putting things back on the wrong shelves, sneaking off to the loos to send text messages, secretly sampling food and gossiping with Rebecca in quiet corners. In the bathroom there’s a sticker on the door with the contact details for a whistle-blowing helpline: If you see something wrong then say something right. One number. One website. Riskavert.co.uk/rightline. When she leaves us for a minute, Rebecca and I start singing Rockwell’s ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’. Yet, despite the ethos and attire, this isn’t the eighties and the message is clear: no one gets away with dragging their feet.

Our trainer talks coupons, reduced-price items, fruit-and-veg prices, cards, sub-totals, split payments, cash payments, fraud, removing security tags, till maintenance, voids, mistakes, price checks—by the end of it my brain sizzles from information overload. When it comes to Nectar cards, customers get two points for every £1 spent. After you’ve got 500 points, you get £2.50 off. By this calculation you have to spend £250 before you get a couple of pounds off. When I look at my own receipts I still can’t make head or tail of it.

At Boots you get four points for every pound spent and each point is worth one pence. Isn’t that a better rewards scheme than Nectar?

Adil is a super-bright young politics student who works here part-time. He gives me the lowdown after three years in the job: ‘This Sainsbury’s branch never used to take induction quite so seriously but things changed after the store failed a number of times on customer service. Sainsbury’s know they can’t compete with Tesco on value so they’re trying to compete on customer service.’

From an employee point of view, though, everyone I’ve talked to so far speaks highly about working here. ‘If you’re nice to everyone, everyone is nice to you,’ I hear, over and over again. I also overhear one young staffer tell another how intimidating they find their manager. All the managers are pretty intimidating; they charge down corridors, sour-faced and with little time for pleasantries. My direct manager, Richard, is the exception.

I’m to go back on Sunday for Day Two of my induction. Already I feel like I’m working here full-time.