The Checkout Girl

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 (#ulink_d594f512-f7ce-5775-be1a-a05220406d32)

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 (#ulink_dd47fc77-7058-53c1-b77e-5bca5737e7d2)

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.

Thursday, 13 November 2008 (#ulink_da019de9-e763-5b76-801a-73cdfdf3ea23)

I am yet to have my ‘Think 21’ training—selling alcohol, fireworks and other age-restricted goods—so until then it’s the shop floor for what I now call ‘reverse shopping’. Sainsbury’s staff call it ‘shopping’—picking up the goods dumped by customers at the tills. Never again will I have a last-minute change of heart leaving a poor Cog to put the unwanted product back. The one three-quarters-full trolley I have takes me two whole hours. After staring aimlessly upwards in a vain attempt to find an aisle that looks like it might be home to the items in my trolley, I find myself going distinctly doolally. I spend more minutes than is healthy carrying cans of Air Wick air freshener, Fairy Liquid bottles, baked bean cans, 3-for-£15 DVDs, a size-16 leopard-print blouse, an over-priced cuddly reindeer and 2-for-1 cookie selection boxes. Despite asking for guidance, no shelf can be found for the truly homeless—the Peppa Pig umbrella, a bag of mixed nuts and raisins, the rogue Christmas light and Pantene shampoo for thick and glossy hair. They go back to the trolley by the supervisors post and next time I look they’ve vanished.

Adil gives me a heads-up on the mystery shopper.

‘They will always ask for something at the other end of the shop to see if you will just point them in the right direction or actually take them there—which is obviously what you need to do. That’s inside information—use it well.’

I get my chance today. A smartly dressed, well-spoken lady in her sixties approaches me while I’m loitering in the household cleaners’ aisle and asks me if we have any Christmas biscuits other than the ones in the aisle across from us.

‘Yes we do, at the other end of the sto—’ A moment’s hesitation and I know what’s expected of me. ‘I’ll take you.’

I’m not a hundred per cent sure I’m taking her to the right spot, but if I look confident enough I may just pull it off. As we walk from one end of the store to the other, I do the maths. She is definitely retired, which makes her a prime candidate for mystery shopping. I’d better do some talking.

‘Are you doing your Christmas shopping?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I wish I had the foresight to do mine so far in advance.’

‘Oh, you’re probably too busy working. I know what it’s like. Before I retired’—BINGO!—‘I used to work for Sainsbury’s…in IT as a project manager.’ DOUBLE BINGO!

She tells me she was there for ten years. I take her to the aisle, show her the biscuits, ask her if she needs anything else and leave her to it.

Back to the trolley and more reverse shopping. A middleaged man asks if I can help him find a particular brand of toilet roll. I show him and ask if there’s anything else he wants. He grunts what may or may not have been a no. Even my toes curl when I cringe.

If I’m trying too hard, one of my fellow newbies isn’t trying at all. Young, dark-haired and plump, she sidles up to me with a customer close behind her.

‘I’ve only been here two weeks and this chap is asking if we have any walnut whips. Do we?’ she asks.

‘I’ve only been here a week—I don’t know.’

‘I don’t know what to do with him. Should I tell him to go to another shop?’

‘Maybe take him to customer service or a till captain?’ I suggest.

She wanders towards him and fobs him off.

Meanwhile, as I’m trying to locate the rightful home of Garnier hair conditioner, a Korean family stop me. It’s Dad, Mum and their teenage daughter.

‘We need something for her hair,’ says Dad. ‘What you recommend?’

‘Oh boy, I’m no expert but I’ll try.’

‘You know more than me, I’m sure,’ grins Dad.

‘What are you after—shampoo? Conditioner?’

‘Make her hair straight. It’s wavy.’

‘You want serum for her hair?’

‘No sticky, for straight.’