Thank you for allowing me to serve you

I've been meaning to write this post since just after we moved here but largely for reasons of dullness I haven't. Still, I am meant to be recording my observations, for me as much as for you (there, I've said it) so here goes.

Bag packers make me nervous and irritable.

The people who stand at the end of the standard less-than-spacious supermarket tills waiting to pack your shopping for you in theory sounds marvellous I'm sure. The truth is somewhat different. Supermarkets are set up for people with cars. Fact. They just pretend to be non-car people friendly by having doors in from the pavements. Tills are set up for people happy to stand around aimlessly while someone else packs their shopping for them. There has been room allocated for one person, one employee, at the end of the till to pack bags. The side arm of the till has actually been cordoned off with cunning use of a machine which gives you your coin change. Folded money change is dolled out in the standard way from the cashier, so you somehow have to negotiate collecting money with both hands - notes in one, coins in the other - whilst strapping your purse or wallet to your chin (I knew that unsightly Velcro patch would come in handy) and dropping anything else you may be holding on your toe. Usually a can of beans.

Paying by card is also fraught with trauma. The swiping card mechanism is much less forgiving than you would expect and I have stood there melon-like swiping and re-swiping five times before. Eyes have been rolled, however surreptitiously. Then you are asked questions before and after entering your pin number, which vary depending on which store you are in:
Do you want to donate to this particular charity today? Y or N
Do you want cash back? Y or N
Now are you sure because you might need it later for bus fare? Y or N
OK then if you are sure, are you happy with the amount for your shopping? Please note that if you press no, you will have to start again. Y or N
Have we asked you too many questions today? Y or N
Please come again soon. Bye. Love you xx

I have seen grown men weep in the face of the unrelenting questions. This isn't strictly true but I have actually seen people weaken under the pressure of the questions, stumble, fall and have to start again with the cashier cracking the whip and shouting 'faster, faster' the whole time. Wait, that isn't true either. I have seen people struggle through the whole process and I have even had to help people confused by which button to press at which time. True, but less dramatic.

Presumably while the customer is tangled up with the interrogation machine, the bag packer steps in and neatly packs all your food, frozen and fridge things all together, bread on the top of the bag, weight equally distributed, so when you emerge dazed and poorer from the instrument of doom, you are gently guided out of the door. There is a further service where the bag packer can take your items to your car and pack your boot for you. I'm sure more kindnesses will be rolled out soon like driving your poor bewildered body home, packing all your food away, heating some soup and spooning it into your face. A quick wipe up around the mouth you mucky pup, and the bag packer has left you sat on your sofa, cupboards and belly full and mercifully with no memory of the traumatic episode, ran back five miles to the store just in time to pack the bags of the next customer in line who is still struggling with the inquisition.

For those of us (me) who do not drive to the supermarket, but carry an empty backpack there in order to fill it to a certain point of just tolerable heaviness, known only to me owing to years of practice and almost back breaking episodes, the bag packing service is not required, thanks all the same. It is possible to give your own bag to the bag packer to pack for you but having once been intimidated into doing this, and suffering badly on the way home, and reduced to tears at the sight of the front door, I now wholeheartedly and firmly, sometimes rudely when all other nice options have failed me, refuse. You would literally be amazed at the added trauma this causes.

It's a tricky one. People have been employed to do this job and I don't want to seem ungrateful or portray that somehow I am superior in the back packing stakes, but at the same time, I am capable of packing my own bags quickly and simultaneously confounding supermarket staff by rolling off the answers to the ceaseless queries from machines and humans. Maybe I should list this as a talent on my CV? There are people who need this service for one reason or another, and luckily I am not one of them. But, some people insist I should have my bags packed for me, and that is where the trouble starts.

By now I moreorless know the people who will leave me alone and the ones who will help me to death. I avoid shorter queues if there is a helpful type at the end of it. Sometimes I am thwarted and the bag packers change on me mid-queue so I have to grit it out. There are two people in particular who even after a year just CANNOT comprehend my polite no thank you. One of them likes to wrestle my backpack from me and just WILL not take no for an answer. I have come up with a strategy for him which is to bring another bag for him to put some specific things of my choosing in, things that I already know will not fit in the big bag. This sounds so stupid to be even talking about. I am admitting that I have a special system up my sleeve for one belligerent man whose name I don't even know but whose sullen haughty face has been etched in my mind. He doesn't much like my special system because he wants to do it all and when I leave my bag to go to pay, he zooms over to it to do it up for me. He also doesn't like it when I thank him. He is as uncomfortable with that concept as I am with someone packing my bag - once he shrugged and said "It is my job." Next time I have decided that I will say "It is my bag."

The other bag packing chap is ridiculously friendly. He waves at me when he sees me in the queue. He turns me packing my bag into a game. Believe it or not, supermarkets are in the habit of employing grown ups and not toddlers. He knows I like the heavy things in my bag and he picks up the remainder. However as each item comes down from the cashier, he likes to check with me, loudly, grinning from ear to ear. Mine? Mine! Yours? Yours! And boy, is it fun and not irritating at all! Hey, everyone else in here, wake up from your comas. There are two people packing bags over there and it looks like fun! Maybe you could try packing your own bags, rather than standing there letting your cashier who actually has her arm in a sling pack yours? No, you didn't notice? There's a surprise.

Worse, far, far worse than all of this is the fact that every single time I pack my own bags, I am thanked. It really bothers me. It bothered me from day one and on day 406, I am still bothered. This is the dark side of the service industry as far as I am concerned. In Walgreens (sort of a strange hybrid of Superdrug and Woolworths) the end of the receipt is printed with the name of the cashier and the words 'Thank you for allowing me to serve you today.' As if they have been elected by the people to fulfill this function rather than be taken for granted as they carry out dull servile duties day in day out, smile never faltering, only for people on their phones to ignore them as they wait around for their bags to be packed. It seems to me that expectations of certain unimportant things are very high, and other far far more important matters, shamefully ignored.

My name is Karen. Thank you for allowing me to write this today.

Cashier Number One Please

I am aware of how ridiculous this is going to sound, and especially as I have just got out of bed where I was warm and comfortable to write this. I just couldn’t get bollards out of my head, and therefore sleep was out of the question until these thoughts were excised.

I have talked before, possibly at length, about the sorts of things I miss from home, mainly in regard to food. The ridiculous cravings we have for Angel Delight are nothing compared to other deep seated yearnings, for more well, bizarre phenomena.

The streets of America sound different. Obviously people talk in a different way, but that is easy to get used to. In fact now if I hear a non-American accent, my curiosity is instantly peaked as I try to work out where this intruder is from. It even takes me a while to work out that I am listening to a fellow country man. As much as I hate to admit this, I have indeed confused Brits and Australians. I know, I know…

As well as the accents, there are the sounds of big trains (notably different from a small train noises of course,) the distant hum of the Freeway and the squawk of various sirens in the distance, echoing long and loud down straight and wide streets. There is also of course my weekly world war two siren testing the emergency warning system, which I think I have just about got used to now.

But what does seem to be in short supply in the general din of this country are the familiar sounds of the likes of “Caution, Bollards in Motion,” “Cashier Number Two Please,” or the auditory treat “This vehicle is reversing.” I miss every one of those computer generated mildly smug and irritating phrases. Unconsciously, perhaps in order to comfort ourselves, Mike and I have started to say them out loud to each other, in the private of our own home, but tone, syllable, inflection, and pitch perfect. My particular favourite is the Post Office and possibly Argos, cashier beckoning instruction. I have become so accurate in my portrayal, you could be forgiven for thinking that you were in a post office in Huyton, Liverpool, in your lunch hour queuing to post a parcel watching your free time slowly ebb away.

Since meeting a man in Safeway who actually swooned when I spoke and who assured me that I should get a job in voice over work, I am seriously considering going into shops and trying out my new directional phrase. I think this will become a most profitable endeavour since we have noticed here that they actually employ people to stand at the front of the queue and tell you when the next cashier is free. Seriously. THAT much money is wasted. For, say a year’s salary, I could record my voice telling the soon to be overcome crowds which cashier was ready to serve them. It would be both more efficient and such a euphoric experience for some, that they would not consider shopping anywhere else. In fact, if they ever found themselves living in a different country, they will also rather curiously find I'm sure that they miss the comfort of my voice, and literally cannot sleep because of it.

Living in a Movie

A strange set of pictures of a small part of the huge campus of the University of California, Berkeley which I visited yesterday when Mike was in a meeting. It isn't even a case of all style, no substance. This place invites envy.

One of the libraries...

Sather tower, otherwise known as the Campanile. I was there too early to go to the top which is meant to afford amazing views, but it seems likely that I will return to find out myself.

Home of good but strong coffee, and some history.

They have even branded the soap dispensers.

Another world.

I even saw a group of small children lining up for summer school with their parents looking on about to embark on whatever children do in summer school, cared for only by students in matching t shirts.

I live in a 80's film. Please can someone pinch me occasionally?

Pigs, Pets and Pastrami

On Saturday we ventured down south to sunny San Mateo's county fair. We had intended to go last year, which seemed to offer much more, but for one reason or another we didn't make it. This year we weren't going to miss out and booked tickets well in advance. We had a great time and it was unlike anywhere we had ever been before and after walking round in an excited mesmerised trance, I now find it almost impossible to describe. I'll have a go though.

We got the train and then walked the remainder in the baking heat, remembering how lucky we are to live in San Francisco which is nicely warm but not too hot for my fair skin. We were the only pedestrians on the road which looked exactly like so many other American towns we have been through, and most people were sensible enough to be encased in their air conditioned cars. On route, we passed a so-called British pub, proclaiming food treats and darts. A quick peek in revealed darkness boarding on dingy, flock wallpaper, and a funny smell. Maybe it truly was a British pub after all, but today was not a day for Britishness, it was a day for embracing American culture, or at least for sneaking a peek at how a nation without a Women's Institute does their flower arranging.


Soon, we left any thoughts of Blighty behind as we stepped into an episode of the Simpsons. It was a strange and heady mix of farm animals, vomit-causing fairground rides, amazing community craft competitions, stalls selling things which people could never possibly need or want, or certainly wouldn't come to a fair to buy, like double glazing, but which seemed to be oddly attractive after an excess of either sugar or lard, also on offer in dizzying variety. As is typical, everything was proclaimed as the 'best ever', or 'all-American', which we now know is a form of short hand for this outlandish statement.

We didn't go into the 'Great American Petting Zoo' which did have a llama and Bambi to its credit, and we didn't visit the biggest pig in the world which had been sheltered in an enormous wind breaker and cost an extra dollar. We also didn't buy a Twister Dog, a hotdog on a stick with fried potato spiralled around it;

but we did visit all of the farm animals, and competition exhibits, marvelling at the skill and sheer audacity in turn, wondering at the categories and wishing that we had entered something. I probably would have gone for the table laying because I think it needed an injection of taste. Things were seemingly haphazardly arranged with limited care, although I'm sure there must have been some sort of order. It also seemed to be missing what I like to call the all important twee and tweed factor. Sometimes you need it just to cut through the garish. A few Morris dancers wouldn't have gone a miss either.

With our free M&M ice creams melting down our hands, we happily contemplated our favourite category, the 'Produce Pet' for 'pet's' creatively made from fresh produce. This had been imaginatively placed next to the smallest mature fruit or vegetable competition which was another joy to behold. There seemed to only be two entries in produce pet corner; one involving corn strapped to a sad wilting sunflower, and one involving a cucumber with a tangerine head, mouth arranged in a silent scream, marooned on it's back with frankly useless mange tout arms which would offer it no leverage to get back up, and topped off with a largely redundant tiny carrot tail. Or maybe that is the colour of cucumber fear? Either way, it was a clear winner.