MAN: In the supermarket I buy commodities. Tinned soup. Some mince. Three tomatoes. Own brand pasta sauce. Bread. Cheese. Nothing smells of anything. I join a queue. An oldish woman stands bewildered as they try to feed her cheque through the machine. She asks if she can just write the cheque herself. She’s even got her own pen, and holds it up as if to prove that she isn’t lying. All she wants is some groceries, hairspray, toilet paper. Jesus, you could almost cry. She quite obviously doesn’t understand the monster she’s pitted herself against. Couldn’t she just write the amount and her name and sign it like she usually does? I listen, sweating lightly, as a till supervisor explains in soft, supposedly soothing tones that this isn’t how it’s done anymore. The system for verifying and franking cheque transactions has now been fully automated, or as he says, the machine does everything for you love. They’ll have to destroy this cheque and start again. But in an almost unbearably pathetic turn of events, it turns out to be her last one. She begins to flap slightly, as if a breeze has just sprung up around her. I think she might be close to crying as she sees the buzzing machine condemn her to go home hungry, her hair without body, lift or shine, and having to wipe her arse on scraps of yesterday’s newspaper. There’s a weird appeal in her eyes as she turns to us, all of us banded together in our determination to ignore what’s going on while still radiating contempt. She mouths an apology, looking back at us for just a second longer than she should. A horrible thought dawns, so toe curling that for a moment I don’t want to believe it. I have to almost say it out loud. This woman is going to depend on the kindness of strangers. She is contemplating asking for our help. And we detest her for it. We fucking hate her. We are not at the head of this queue. This is not our responsibility.
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