by Henry VIII is handed a handheld self-scan device and discovers a new form of surveillance disguised as convenience
I once had servants handle every financial transaction on my behalf, from the purchase of an entire county to a modest quantity of venison. Sainsbury’s handed me a small orange scanner and expected me to manage the whole affair myself.
The Handheld Device
The scanner clipped neatly to my basket, requiring me to scan each item as I selected it rather than at the till, a system that struck me immediately as an elaborate form of self-policing, since the alternative, apparently, is a random spot check at the exit performed by a member of staff eyeing my basket with the precise suspicion I once reserved for foreign ambassadors bearing unexpected gifts.
The Random Check
I was, in fact, selected for a spot check, my basket rescanned item by item by a patient woman named Denise while a small queue formed behind me, watching with the exact silent judgement of a jury already leaning toward guilty. Every item matched. Denise thanked me and wished me a good day. I felt, nonetheless, thoroughly interrogated.
The Loose Item Problem
A bag of loose mushrooms defeated me entirely, requiring me to weigh them myself at a small machine that printed a barcode only after I had correctly identified the mushroom variety from a screen of nearly identical thumbnail photographs, a task I found considerably harder than identifying most foreign dignitaries by portrait alone, and I have had considerable practice at that particular skill.
The Discount Sticker
Near the bakery I discovered a reduced item, a loaf marked down for quick sale, and scanned it only to find the scanner still charging full price, a discrepancy I resolved by flagging down a passing staff member who corrected it instantly and without complaint, restoring my faith in the system considerably more than the random check had damaged it.
The Verdict
I left having scanned, weighed, and self-checked my own shopping entirely unaided, a level of independent commerce I have not managed since long before my original death, and I felt, walking home, a genuine and unexpected sense of accomplishment. I once required an entire treasury department to manage my finances. I now require only a small orange scanner and the quiet, watchful trust of a woman named Denise.
The Following Week
Denise remembered me on my next visit, waving me through without a spot check at all, a small act of trust I found genuinely touching after the scrutiny of the first encounter. I have since become considerably more confident with the mushroom identification screen, a skill I did not expect to develop in this lifetime and one I am, on balance, quietly proud of.
I have also, since that first spot check, made a private peace with the whole system, having realised Denise is simply doing her job with the same quiet professionalism I once demanded of my own household staff. Denise handled the whole affair with more patience than most entries under my temper would suggest I deserve. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: London’s ongoing talent for charging you simply for looking, the capital’s full field guide to modern grifts, the original account of my own return to Britain.
