The Derby Trip 3.

I was walking around Derby with Mel (ex Helen) today, when I decided I wanted a bar of chocolate. It’s surprising how few places sell chocolate bars in a city centre, so we made for the Tesco Metro Store.

I made my choice and headed for one of the self-service tills which all supermarkets have these days, those things with screens and scanners and buttons and slots and flat scales and – most impressive of all – the Voice of the Machine to help you through the tangled undergrowth of modern times.

I didn’t need the Voice of the Machine. I had Mel; she’s used to these things. I let her do all the pressing of buttons and shifting of product from one flat surface to another. She told me where to put the money and where to collect the change etc, etc. I was just bemused by the whole thing, and when it seemed to be all over I asked

‘So can I eat the chocolate bar now?’

‘Yes.’

The Voice of the Machine, however, appeared not to have quite the faith in Mel that I did, since it kept butting in the whole time. As we were about to walk away, it insisted on having the last word.

‘Thank you for shopping at Tesco.’

‘Oh, do shut up!’ I yelled at it instinctively.

It was a female voice, you see, and that’s what I always yell when female voices go on and on and insist on having the last word. But then I heard the voice of the young male employee whose job it was to tend the bank of self-service checkouts.

‘Well said, mate. Well said.’