by Henry VIII declares war on the unexpected item in the bagging area and finds it undefeated
I have ordered men beheaded for lesser crimes than what that machine just accused me of.
The Unexpected Item
I went to the supermarket in Walthamstow to buy grapes, a chicken, and something called oat milk, which I am told is not milk and is not from an oat, and nobody will explain further. I placed my chicken in the bagging area. The machine said, in a voice with no fear of the crown whatsoever, unexpected item in the bagging area. Madam, I said to the machine, I placed the item in the area myself, with my own hand, the same hand that once signed the Act of Supremacy. There was nothing unexpected about it.
Summoning The Guard
A woman in a red waistcoat arrived, tapped a card against the reader, and walked away without so much as a bow. In my court she would have been knighted for that kind of efficiency. Instead she was gone before I could ask her name, and the machine had already moved on to accusing me of stealing my own grapes, which it weighed and rejected twice, as though grapes were a new and suspicious invention rather than something Englishmen have eaten since before the Romans arrived.
The Loyalty Card
Then it asked if I had a Clubcard. I said I do not carry cards, I carry a signet ring that ends conversations permanently. It said the chicken was four pounds more without one. Four pounds. I once financed an entire war with France for less humiliation than this pricing structure. I asked the machine directly why loyalty to a supermarket costs money to prove, and it printed a receipt instead of answering, which is exactly what Wolsey used to do.
Age Verification
I attempted to purchase a bottle of wine and the machine froze entirely, demanding age verification, and flashed a red light as though the Spanish Armada had returned specifically to stop me drinking claret. A teenager appeared, glanced at my face, glanced at my beard, glanced at the general historical weight I carry into every room, and pressed a button without comment. That is the most respect anyone in this country has shown my age in five hundred years.
The Walk Of Shame
Eventually an alarm sounded because I had placed my own bag on the scale, a bag I brought from home specifically to avoid buying another bag, which is apparently also suspicious. Six members of staff turned to look. In my day a public alarm meant treason. Here it means a man from Waltham Forest is trying to save the planet one tote bag at a time and the machine has decided this is a crime against Tesco.
I left with my chicken, my grapes, and my dignity roughly forty percent intact, which honestly beats most of my marriages. Next week I am told there is a machine at the pharmacy that will do the same to me over paracetamol. I welcome the fight. I have never once lost a war I was angry enough about, and I am extremely angry about the bagging area.
Regular readers will already know this is nothing compared to my temper on a genuinely bad day. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: six pounds now apparently the going rate for a croissant on principle, the full rundown of London’s most judgmental cafes, the full eyewitness account of how I came back in the first place.
