by Henry VIII orders a toaster from Argos and discovers a collection system with genuine industrial theatre
I once sent messengers across the realm on horseback carrying urgent instructions, and they generally returned within the week. My toaster from Argos took four minutes, and arrived via conveyor belt with a small mechanical clunk I found strangely satisfying.
The Catalogue Terminal
I selected the toaster using a small terminal screen, browsing categories with the same slow deliberation I once brought to selecting an ambassador, and confirmed the order with a reference number I was told to remember, a number I promptly forgot within thirty seconds, a failing I have come to expect of myself in this particular century.
The Waiting Area
The waiting area itself held roughly fifteen people, all facing a single large screen displaying order numbers as they became ready, a form of collective anticipation I recognised instantly from certain public executions I once presided over, though considerably lower stakes and considerably better lighting.
The Belt
When my number finally appeared, a small hatch in the wall opened and my toaster arrived via a short conveyor belt, delivered with no ceremony whatsoever by a system entirely indifferent to the fact that I had once commanded the delivery of considerably more valuable cargo across entire oceans with rather more fanfare attached.
The Staff Member
A staff member named Kevin confirmed my item and asked if I required a bag, a question I found genuinely touching in its simplicity after everything else this century has demanded of me in the way of applications, verifications, and reference numbers. I said yes. Kevin provided one without further interrogation. It was, without question, the smoothest transaction I have completed since returning from the dead.
The Verdict
I walked home with my toaster, genuinely moved by the quiet dignity of the conveyor belt system, having expected considerably more friction from an institution I associate primarily with a catalogue the size of a small telephone directory. I once organised entire supply chains for war. Argos organised my breakfast appliance in under five minutes, and I have decided, on reflection, that this represents genuine civilisational progress.
The Loyalty Visit
I have since returned for a kettle, a lamp, and a small set of drawers, each collected via the same conveyor belt with the same quiet satisfaction, and Kevin now recognises me on sight, greeting me each time with the calm familiarity of a man who has clearly seen stranger regulars than a returned Tudor king furnishing an entire flat one item at a time.
Kevin has started saving me the trouble of the terminal screen entirely, simply asking what I need and typing it in himself, a small kindness I have come to genuinely rely on. It is, in its own quiet way, the best customer service I have received anywhere in this city. The full toaster saga sits alongside the rest of the chapters. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: Amazon’s own recent acquisition of considerably more than a shoebox, Apple’s warning that memory itself is now in short supply, the proper London pub where history finally sat down for a pint.
