The Self-Checkout Choir

Supermarket self-checkouts are less machines, more a Greek chorus of accusation.
“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”
Always unexpected. Always suspicious.

You scan an apple and somehow it transforms into contraband. A humble onion becomes an unspeakable offence against the scanning gods. The machine blares for “assistance,” summoning a high-vis oracle who swipes a card with all the authority of a prison guard unlocking a cell.

And the voice: flat, synthetic, oddly maternal. Not soothing, but scolding. A passive-aggressive aunt who doesn’t trust you with her best china. “Please place the item in the bagging area.” As though you’re trying to smuggle it out beneath your jumper.

Meanwhile, four other machines chime in with their own complaints, creating a strange mechanical harmony. A chorus of frustration, performed in the key of error. Shoppers stand around, shoulders hunched, trying to look innocent. Nobody does.

And when it finally accepts your card and spits out the receipt, you leave not triumphant, but slightly shamed. As if you’ve been judged and found wanting.
(And you still forgot the bloody milk.)