Check-out chic

I’m wondering if it’s time to look for a job. When I told a school mum, she looked aghast – a bit like Munch’s The Scream – and wanted to know why. I said I was worried about becoming obsolete, that I’d wake up one day and realise my only career prospect was as a check-out chick. I know, I know, I’m being ridiculous … No-one would hire me as a check-out chick. Not with my barcode scanner phobia. Even when there’s a queue of 20 at the check-out and zero at the scan-’em-yourself aisle, I always choose the check-out. (Well, the blathery check-out bloke with the grey ponytail gives me pause, but I think he’s on holidays at the moment.) If staff suggest using the scan-’em-yourself aisle – and making themselves redundant – I shake my head frantically, like they’ve suggested I strip naked. Long, long ago, I spent a summer holiday working as a check-out chick. I was 16 or 17. I would’ve overcome my barcode phobia back then, when my brain was fully functional, except there were no barcodes (or mobile phones or laptops or DVD players or Facebook or cable … geezy louisy, how did we survive?). There were just big cash registers with buttons to push, and price stickers. Actually, not always price stickers. I think I was supposed to memorise the prices of all 600 items in the store. But my memory wasn’t that good, even when I did have a fully functional brain. If the manager wasn’t around for price checks, I’d just guess how much the frozen peas were. Fortunately it was a corner store in a seaside village filled with tourists who expected to be gouged for their frozen peas, so I never got pulled up on it. But the manager didn’t request my services again next summer. So maybe somebody did complain. Bastards.

LAST NIGHT’S DINNER: I marinated chicken kebabs in lemon, olive oil and garlic for the Sprogs (loved ’em), while Husband and I had green chicken curry (see below). I used a Marion’s Kitchen curry pack, yum!

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