Martin emerged from his local train station after a long, draining day. All he wanted was to get home and collapse into bed. He hadn’t eaten, and though he knew skipping dinner wasn’t a good plan, the thought of cooking filled him with dread. He hurried down the stairs straight into a crush of commuters spilling from the opposite platform. Ordinarily mild-mannered people became a jostling mob, elbows out as they forced their way through the ticket barriers. By the time Martin squeezed through, his patience was at breaking point.
The next obstacle was the exit itself. With only one automatic door working, more than a hundred people were funnelled through a single gap like cattle at a gate. When he finally stumbled onto the street, Martin was, quite understandably, in a very bad mood. One broken door had turned an ordinary commute into chaos.
The Shelter & The Meal Deal
And then the rain began. First a few drops, then a steady drizzle, and within half a minute a downpour that left him drenched. A thunderclap split the air, confirming his day had reached new lows. Desperate for shelter, he scanned the street and spotted his only refuge, a “little Waitrose” glowing across the road. It was far too wet to wait politely for the lights to change, so Martin took the uncharacteristic risk of darting across two lanes of traffic, dodging angry drivers and harried cyclists, until at last he reached the sliding doors.
He stumbled into the "little Waitrose" dripping wet and exhausted, but his spirits were lifted as soon as he felt the burst of warm air hit his face and body. Martin just wanted to stand under the hot air coming from the ceiling and dry himself off, but he knew that would look both strange and suspicious, and he didn't fancy having to explain himself to the rather intimidating looking security guard.
So he decided to start wandering casually around the shop, pretending to be a genuine shopper. That was when he remembered he still needed dinner, and what better way to end a busy day than with a lovely nutritious Meal Deal - sandwich, packet of crisps and drink all for the bargain price of £5. Martin slowly made his way to the front of the shop where the sandwiches were stacked inside big refrigerator cabinets. It may have been an exaggeration to say that there were hundreds of different options to choose from, but he was pretty certain he could have a Meal Deal every day for a month without having to eat the same sandwich twice.
Martin started to search through all the different sandwich options, and it didn't take long before Martin found something he fancied. Martin was a creature of habit, and in his personal sandwich hierarchy the classic ham and mustard was top. The next choice he had to make was which crisps would best accompany the ham and mustard sandwich. Fortunately, they were stacked conveniently beside the sandwiches, saving him the bother of a long search. Martin went straight to the pickled onion Monster Munch knowing this would be an excellent accompaniment to the ham and mustard sandwich. And finally the drink - he settled on a bottle of sparkling water reasoning that the bubbles would cut through the saltiness of the crisps and make him feel ever so slightly more virtuous about his otherwise unhealthy snack.
With his Meal Deal complete, Martin took his time to make his way to the check out. It was still raining and he was in no hurry to get back outside into the wet. As he was approaching the tills he made a sudden decision to grab a banana, quite correctly reasoning he needed to add some vitamins to his heavily processed dinner. It was only a short detour to get to the fruit section and within minutes he was in possession of a nicely ripened banana to go alongside his sandwich, crisps and drink. When he got to the self-checkout there were only two other people in front of him which he took to be a good omen for the rest of his evening. It wasn't long before he had reached the front of the queue and making his way to the next available check out.
The Checkout Dilemma
He placed his basket on the bagging area and looked at the screen in front of him and read the prompt:
“Press Start or Scan First Item.”
Martin frowned. Why both options? Surely the act of scanning an item was enough to start the process. This was exactly the kind of thing that bothered Martin. He had a passion (some might say an affliction) for process and order. Every daily interaction, whether it's buying a Vanilla Latte at Starbucks or queuing for stamps at the Post Office was seen through the critical lens of someone who must have order in their life. In fact, just the other day he was in the pub waiting to be served thinking to himself that a ticketing system would be much more efficient and less stressful for everyone.
Still, he quickly dismissed this as unimportant and began to scan his food and place them in the bagging area. The sandwich beeped through, then the crisps, and then the sparkling water. So far, flawless, no unexpected items in the bagging area.
The Banana Fiasco
All that remained was the banana. Martin knew the fruit drill - press Look Up Item on the touch screen, select Fruit & Vegetables, tap the picture of a banana, and enter the quantity. But something was wrong. The option wasn’t there. He stared at the screen, brain fog creeping in, thoughts clouding until panic began to set in. He saw an assistant standing by the door and waved madly at her hoping to get her attention. After a few seconds she spotted him and came rushing over clearly fearing he was in serious trouble.
"How can I help you?” she asked gently.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Martin stammered, “but I can’t find the Fruit & Vegetables option on the screen.”
The shop assistant smiled warmly and reassured Martin that this was quite normal and he needed to go and weigh his fruit on the scales near the entrance to the shop. Martin picked up his banana and started the short walk towards the weighing scales at the front of the store.
But before he got more than a few steps, a curt voice called after him.
"You can't leave your shopping there", the voice said sharply. Martin turned round to be confronted by the previously friendly shop assistant.
"But I'm just going to weigh the banana", he said flustered. "I'll only be a couple of minutes."
“That may be true,” she replied firmly, “but you’re blocking the checkout.”
Martin was in no mood to argue over such a triviality, so he started to put all his shopping back into his basket and return to the weighing scales. He thought to himself that by the time he’d packed it all away, he could have weighed the banana and returned. Not that the assistant, he suspected, would appreciate the efficiency of that observation.
Martin weighed his banana, stuck the label on the outside and trudged back to the checkouts. By the time he returned the queue had got longer and there were now eight people in front of him. Infuriated barely covered it. Still, he forced himself to stay calm and wait his turn. Eventually he was back in front of the till ready to start rescanning. He ignored the "Press Start or Scan First Item" button and went straight to scanning. Every item went through first time. No need to try scanning the barcodes at different angles, no unexpected items in the bagging area. And he avoided the dreaded age verification process which could add minutes to an otherwise perfect transaction. Now all he needed to do was pay.
Loyalty Loops & Bag Prompts
He pressed the "Pay For Items" button only to be confronted by another detour: Do you have a loyalty card?. Martin selected "No" and got ready to tap his credit card on the payment machine when yet another message appeared - How many bags have you used?. Martin sighed. He always carried his trusty foldable bag, so he selected no bags and then "Enter". Finally, the screen moved on… but not to payment. One last decision: Cash or card?
“No brainer” he muttered, "who carries cash in 2025?".
He gave the chip & pin machine a quick tap with his card, and the transaction was complete.
Martin bundled his ham and mustard sandwich, Monster Munch crisps and sparkling water into his bag, and stepped back out into the pouring rain.
The Dropped Banana
Martin stepped out of the sliding doors, clutching his hard-won Meal Deal and banana, feeling almost victorious after the ordeal at the checkout. The rain was still pouring, bouncing off the pavement and soaking him through within seconds. He fumbled with his foldable shopping bag, trying to rearrange his purchases to avoid the Monster Munch from getting crushed under the bottle of water, and the sandwich from getting soggy from the rain.
In his eagerness to juggle everything properly into place, Martin’s fingers slipped. The banana flew from his grasp in slow motion, bounced once on the wet pavement, and then rolled underneath a speeding car which proceeded to squash it into the road. Martin froze. He stared at the yellow mess now stuck to the tarmac. All that effort to get his prized banana was utterly wasted. People brushed past him, umbrellas knocking against his shoulder, but all he could think about was his ruined Meal Deal - the nutritious banana that had been carefully chosen to offset the junk food.
He glanced up in despair, only to spot a glimmer of hope glowing faintly through the sheets of rain. Across the street, like a guiding star calling to him, was the neon sign of a Boots pharmacist. It might not have been his first choice, but desperate times required desperate measures and he wasn’t about to let one unfortunate accident ruin his dinner.
So, ignoring the thunder overhead and the annoyed drivers honking as he dashed across the road, Martin tightened his grip on the bag and marched towards the chemist doors.
The Sun Blush Pesto Salad
The sliding doors whooshed open and Martin stumbled into the bright, fluorescent glow of Boots. The sweet scent of the perfume counter was a pleasant change to the damp smell of wet clothes, and he found it a comforting welcome.
Martin made his way past endless rows of shampoo, toothpaste, and plasters, until he reached the modest chilled cabinet tucked away at the back. He had always thought it odd that a pharmacy also sold food, but in this moment he was profoundly grateful. There, waiting for him, was a neat row of sandwiches and salads, each one packaged in a plastic container.
He searched the shelves, hunting for something that could take the place of his lost banana. And it took only a moment for him to find the perfect replacement - the Sun Blush Pesto Salad. The label told him that it contained red tomatoes, olive oil, pasta spirals coated in vivid green pesto, and a sprinkling of feta cheese. This was Martin's idea of a perfect companion to his ham & mustard sandwich – much better than a banana.
He picked the salad up and looked for the self-service tills. He could see them at the front of the shop and began to retrace his steps back past the perfume counter, the floral mist clinging to his damp jacket giving it a much-needed fresh fragrance. A small group of teenagers blocked the aisle, comparing nail polish colours, oblivious to Martin trying to get past. Martin shuffled restlessly, shifting from foot to foot, before squeezing past with an exaggerated sigh - a performance wasted on the oblivious teenagers.
As he drew nearer to the tills, he couldn’t help but perform his usual mental audit. The layout, in his view, was nothing short of chaotic. The tills were spread out resulting in people forming multiple queues, unsure when it was their turn to move forward. Boots hadn’t yet learned from the efficiency of banks and airports, where a single, snaking queue fed into multiple service points with seamless precision.
Martin clutched his bag tightly, balancing the Sun Blush Pesto Salad in his other hand, and took his place behind a man juggling two meal deals and a precariously large briefcase. Each queue shuffled forward at different speeds, causing Martin to question whether he had joined the fastest line.
Martin inched along until finally it was his turn. He stepped up to the empty checkout, placed his salad down, and immediately found himself confronted by a design flaw that to him was nothing short of catastrophic. The checkout had two flat areas: one to the left, and one to the right. But which was for placing the basket, and which was for scanned items?
There were no signs, no arrows, nothing. He hesitated for a moment and sensed the impatient glare of a large man holding a wet umbrella waiting in the queue. In the end Martin made what he thought was a logical deduction and placed his basket on the larger space, keeping the smaller square for scanned goods. A sensible decision, though he strongly suspected at least half the people in the shop would have done it the other way around.
The Advantage Card Paradox
He scanned the Sun Blush Pesto Salad and it registered with a re-assuring beep. He placed the plastic container in the bagging area and pressed the payment button. Everything was going perfectly…until the screen froze and presented him with two options:
Please Present Advantage Card
a) I have forgotten my card
b) I don’t have an Advantage Card
Martin frowned. This was a paradox. If you actually had a card, there was no button to press. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, another shopper at the next till prodding the screen helplessly, muttering in frustration. People with cards stood frozen, convinced they had to declare themselves as either forgetful or cardless. The whole system was broken - a logical muddle that would have made even Alan Turing shake his head in despair.
Martin sighed. This was the part that had confused him before. He remembered standing here months ago, trying the different options like everyone else, until finally a staff member had explained the hidden trick: if you actually had an Advantage Card, you weren’t supposed to touch the screen at all - you simply scanned it. No instruction, no hint, nothing to tell you this was the way forward. He fished his card from his wallet and swiped it confidently, taking secret pleasure in knowing the correct sequence where others would surely flounder.
The screen blinked, and shifted smoothly to the payment page. For once, Martin almost smiled. He tapped his debit card against the machine with a sense of triumph, exhaled in relief as it approved, and picked up his salad. Behind him, he could already hear the umbrella man muttering at the Advantage Card screen, destined to make the same mistake Martin had made last time.
The Exploding Sparkling Water
Martin finally stepped back out into the storm, clutching his bag containing the ham and mustard sandwich, the Monster Munch, and the Sun Blush Pesto Salad. He tightened his grip as the rain pelted down even harder and decided to take a quick sip from his sparkling water before trudging home.
The moment he twisted the cap, a violent hiss escaped and the bottle erupted like a volcano. A fountain of fizzy water sprayed over his face, his coat, and worst of all - straight into his bag. Droplets seeped into the flimsy plastic sandwich container, soaking the bread until you could see it start to disintegrate like papier-mâché left out in the rain.
He stood in disbelief, staring down at the carnage. The sandwich was ruined. Martin realised he had no choice. He would have to replace the sandwich, and perhaps everything else. He looked around through the curtain of rain and spotted the glowing sign of yet another shop - a Tesco Express tucked between a betting shop and a shuttered vape store. With a resigned sigh, Martin braced himself for yet another ordeal, tightened his hood, and darted across the road (narrowly avoiding a delivery van blasting its horn) towards his third shopping expedition of the evening.
Tesco Redemption
Inside, Tesco was at least warm and mercifully dry. The strip lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the faint scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air. The biggest challenge wasn’t the staff or the queues, but simply navigating the place. The aisles were narrow and cluttered, and the extra width taken up by his shopping basket meant he was constantly bumping into stacked displays and the occasional passing shopper. Every few steps Martin had to shuffle sideways to squeeze past trolleys left half-abandoned, or dodge a stack of promotional boxes that seemed deliberately placed in the middle of the walkway.
Still, he made steady progress. He reached the chilled section, where the shelves were bare but not empty. After some rummaging, he found a chicken and bacon sandwich that looked surprisingly tasty. He spotted a small basket of slightly bruised bananas near the end of the aisle. He examined them carefully and selected the least battered one, he felt good being back in possession of a banana!
With his shopping complete, Martin wound his way back through the obstacle course of narrow aisles and found himself at the self-checkout area. There was no long queue, just a couple of people ahead of him, and the machines looked reassuringly familiar. He knew that Tesco had cleverly perfected the art of the self-service system. The screens were simple, the prompts logical, and the bagging areas rarely triggered the dreaded “unexpected item” warning. This was a model of efficiency. For once, Martin felt almost at ease, confident that he could glide through the process without incident.
Martin scanned his chicken and bacon sandwich first, the familiar “beep” lifting his mood after the chaotic evening he’d endured. The bruised banana followed, registering on the screen with reassuring ease. For once, there was no drama, no need to navigate endlessly around on the screen, no confusing menus about fruit and vegetables.
And then, nothing else. His shopping was complete. Unlike the prolonged process at Waitrose or the Advantage Card trap at Boots, Tesco had perfected the system. No redundant button to press, no hidden menu waiting to trip him up. The moment he’d scanned his last item, the payment reader lit up and he just needed to tap and go.
Martin pulled out his debit card with a flicker of relief, tapped it against the glowing terminal, and heard the sharp, approving beep. That was, in Martin’s mind, a self-checkout at its best - fast, efficient, and a logical design.
He slipped the purchases into his bag, the sandwich sitting carefully above the banana, and walked with quiet determination through the sliding Tesco doors.
The Final Walk
Outside, the storm had lessened to a drizzle. The road glistened under the streetlamps, and the air carried the fresh scent of rain on tarmac. Martin pulled his hood tight and started the refreshing walk home, gripping the bag as though it contained treasure rather than a simple sandwich, salad and a battered piece of fruit.
It struck him then that the whole evening - three shops, one argument with a shop assistant, a drowned sandwich, a lost banana, and a sparkling-water explosion, had been a battle of endurance. Yet here he was, victorious. A man in possession of dinner.
As he turned the final corner to his street, Martin let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. For all its absurdities, for all its trials and setbacks, he was heading home with food. And tomorrow, perhaps, things would run more smoothly. Tonight, though, he allowed himself a quiet victory - proof that even the smallest wins are worth celebrating.
At last, Martin was triumphant.