The Checkout Girl

‘I’m making cakes, biscuits, pasta, chicken soup—I’ll spend two days cooking, and then I’m done.’

The whole thing costs her £85—and there are gifts there for about twenty people. Now that’s a creative credit-crunching Christmas.

Another lady tells me she’s dishing out cash for Christmas. ‘There’s no thought in it and it takes the pleasure out of giving, but at least they can get what they want.’

A teenager and his mother discuss their Christmas plans with me; Mum’s looking forward to a couple of weeks off work with her family. ‘If only, though, I could get the kids away from their computer games.’

‘Tell me about it,’ says the lady behind her. ‘The Xboxes, Nintendos, Wiis—so much for spending time together at Christmas.’ In both sets of shopping trolleys they have, you guessed it, computer games.

More couples arguing today. And no one cares that I’m watching. One man storms off, receipt in hand, furious at the amount his wife has spent. I watch her follow him, red-faced, pushing the huge trolley and dragging her toddlers behind her.

Richard runs from till to till saying he wants to see us all get into the Christmas spirit from tomorrow.

‘I want to see tinsel, lots of tinsel. I want to see reindeer hairbands, Santa Claus, the lot.’

Saturday, 20 December 2008 (#ulink_31509d9c-c255-553d-859d-d16944810698)

I’m in the locker room loos tying my hair back with a piece of tinsel when Michelle walks in.

‘Are you doing any overtime next week?’ she asks.

‘No, I’m not. It’s too difficult with my kids. Are you?’

‘Same here—I just can’t. My daughters were ill last week so I had to call in sick. You know, I’m finding it really difficult with them—I just don’t know what to do. I really need to change my shifts from three to two.’

‘Why don’t you talk to Richard? Just tell him how tough it is.’

‘I know I should, I should…but…we’re still on probation, you know.’

She is obsessed with our probation. I want to tell her I’ve asked for a shift change but don’t.

‘If my situation doesn’t change, I might have to leave—you know,’ she says rubbing her eyes wearily.

Suddenly we realise that there is someone else in the toilets. So she changes her tune.

‘Well, maybe I won’t have to leave…I’ll see you downstairs.’ And she runs off.

This is my last shift before Christmas. I turn the corner towards the tills and walk on to a pantomime set. There are elves, female Father Christmases, two-legged reindeers, walking Christmas gifts…One of the supervisors is parcelled up inside a box wrapped with ribbon. Richard is dressed in a Santa Claus outfit with an enormous white beard. The others have all gone with a Sexy Santa theme: short skirts trimmed with tinsel, tight black belts pulled suggestively around the waist, red corsets lined with white fake fur, stockings, tails, reindeer hairbands—it is a Santa’s harem.

The local scouts are in, helping with packing (and raising money for charity) and I’ve got a garrulous Scout leader at my tills. She ends up talking to all my customers so I just listen.

Everyone wants to know about our Christmas hours and I tell them we’re open twenty-four hours a day next week. They must all be planning to come in then, because it’s certainly quieter today than I expected.

There are lots of unfamiliar faces around and I realise that they’re the extra staff taken on for Christmas. Others in the retail sector are cutting back on part-time staff and offering extra hours, but not so at Sainsbury’s, and there’s been no talk here of redundancies.

At the end of my shift, Richard calls me into his office. He gives me a Christmas card, thanks me for my work and offers me a Quality Street. He asks about my childcare situation, tells me he will consider it in light of the recent sackings, and give me an answer in the New Year. He then talks to me about being off sick. He asks me to go through what was wrong, how I informed them, and reminds me that I don’t get paid sick leave. He takes out a piece of paper and draws up a six-point list for every instance of sick leave:

1. Fill out a back-to-work form. And talk through what happens next.

2. Have a chat about why sick. Can Sainsbury’s do anything to support you?

3. Verbal warning.

4. Written warning.

5. Disciplinary action.

6. Dismissal.

‘Wow!’ I find myself spluttering. ‘But most people are sick about three times a year. What about the fact that we might pass on what we’ve got?’

He tells me politely that once everyone learns about these six stages, no one goes beyond the second or third. This, it seems, is Richard’s way of pulling us into line.

When I emerge, Michelle is next in the queue. She looks anxious and asks me what it’s about. I reassure her it’s a Christmas greeting and she relaxes. She comes to my till ten minutes later looking brow-beaten.

‘I asked him if I could change my shifts and he said no.’

‘Really? He’s not even going to consider it?’

‘No. He said someone has already asked him, so it’s too late for me.’ Her soft blue eyes are piercing when they stare.

I say nothing and I’m not sure why. As she walks away I feel uncomfortable. I know that the supermarket has already invested £2000 in training us, I’ve done OK in my assessments and I’m not scared of negotiating. Michelle is scared witless about losing her job, paranoid about our probationary period and doesn’t know how to play the game. It shouldn’t be my problem, yet I’m racked with guilt.

Tuesday, 23 December 2008 (#ulink_ae4554aa-2e61-5933-9139-62128d8cf7c9)

Today I go to my local Sainsbury’s to get my Christmas shopping at 9 p.m. and I’m seething because they’ve run out of rosemary. I peruse the other shelves and note that many are short of stock. What’s the point of being open twenty-four hours if the shelves are empty?

The newspapers are full to the brim with Christmas cheer; there’s no escape from recession stories, but I’ve not yet seen it translate on the shop floor. I am now becoming more certain that supermarkets will survive this recession. I read that nine out of ten retailers are already discounting—Sainsbury’s is one of them. Since I’ve been here, there has been a sell-out halfprice sale on toys, 25 per cent off on clothes and equally large discounts on booze.

Saturday, 27 December 2008 (#ulink_ebf69835-e49d-5ef4-b44a-7e25d3e47d20)

I get in early to do some shopping and as soon as I walk in I’m distracted by yet another half-price sale in the clothing department. I find myself rummaging through racks of clothes I definitely do not need. Sainsbury’s TU range is really a huge success story. It’s the reason the supermarket has broken into the top ten of the UK’s biggest clothing retailers, thanks to the number of shoppers, including myself, who combine their food shop with some retail therapy. According to a report in the Times supermarkets’ clothing ranges make up nearly a quarter of items of clothing sold in the UK. Asda has 10.3 per cent of the market, Primark 9.9 per cent, Tesco 9 per cent and Sainsbury’s, new to clothing, has 2.3 per cent of the market by volume. The reason for their success is that they focus on cheaper basic items of clothing. I know this myself, having picked up a £9 cardigan, £18 jeans and £4 indoor boots in recent weeks. I also read in the report that Sainsbury’s TU range is believed to have increased by 40 per cent in the last year, making an estimated £300 million in sales. The report says that its top performer is thought to be lingerie, and I can certainly vouch for this judging by the number of bras and knickers that come down my till several times a day alongside the tinned tomatoes and kitchen foil.

I take a peek at the newspapers at the kiosk and all the front pages are reporting the record-breaking Boxing Day sales. People have been queuing around the block from the early hours and there have been stampedes around the country. On an inside page there’s an editorial reporting that, despite the Boxing Day boom, the New Year is going to bring spending cuts, job insecurity and a long recession. It claims that people have started planning cutbacks and aiming to live more cheaply, although I have yet to see it.

The high-octane sales atmosphere is making some shoppers tense. My first customer today grumbles at me about the intense traffic in the retail park nearby—people are trying to get to Comet, Argos and Homebase. ‘What’s wrong with them? They’ve all gone Comet mad.’ The couple behind him tell me they went to the big shopping centre for the sales but when they saw people arguing in the car park they turned around and drove here instead. Then a middle-aged couple tell me they queued up from 5 a.m. outside Next and are pleased that, while they spent £300, they saved £300 in discounts. He doesn’t let the fact that he had to spend £300 to save £300 bother him. But when I ask if he’s worried about the recession, a different story emerges. He works for BT broadband.

‘There’s no such thing as a job for life there any more. They’re making redundancies across the board, but I think for the moment my job is safe. Who knows for how long, though?’

Another customer, a mum with a three-year-old, has spent £200 on clothes in Oasis, Principles and Next. ‘I’m not letting myself think about the recession today—ask me in a few days.’ She pauses. ‘But when you’ve got kids, life is so difficult that you need to spoil yourself, don’t you?’

‘And spending makes you feel good, even if it’s a temporary high,’ I add. She nods, but I see a small frown starting to develop across her forehead.

Most people I ask haven’t been to the sales yet. They’re all saying they just can’t face the shops at the moment. One woman in her thirties has the recession very much on her mind. She says she has decided against any sales shopping ‘because everyone has got to tighten their belts for the rough ride ahead. Things being as they are, I’m just grateful to have a job.’

I eavesdrop on two middle-aged ladies talking. One is chastising the other for dragging her into Sainsbury’s. ‘It’s only been two days and here we are shopping again, it’s sickening.’

When I ask people about their New Year plans, the vast majority say they are going to celebrate at home quietly, while one or two are having small soirées, saying, ‘It’s cheaper than going out.’