#oneaday Day 677: Understaffed and overpriced

"It's so cool that literally every job now is understaffed by 30-50%. It's great because I didn't want whatever it was done well or with any care at all. But please keep raising prices anyway."

@headfallsoff.com, via Bluesky

I saw this post earlier and it resonated. I'm sure that right now, wherever you are in the world, you are feeling some variation of this thought. You are probably also feeling as bewildered as I am at why this is all the case. Yes, the economy is fucked due to the AI bubble, private equity dominating everything and the stock market continually doing weird things (a shoe company "pivoted to AI" recently and their stock value exploded!), but surely some things are constant. Like, say, the need for groceries.

Our local big Sainsbury's is a prime example. It's a decently sized supermarket that serves a wide area in the town; it's conveniently located, as it's somewhat on the outskirts of the general urban area, and it's also near a number of local amenities, such as a doctor's surgery and bingo hall. It does plenty of business, as the car park is always pretty full and there are always people in it.

So why have I only ever seen one person actually on the checkouts at a time? There are like five or six conventional checkout lanes (plus a large self-checkout area for trolleys, and another separate large self-checkout area for baskets, inevitably with at least one person using a trolley in it) and there only ever seem to be about three people on hand at any time: one person begrudgingly staffing the conventional checkout, and two people milling around the self-checkout areas, occasionally noticing that yes, you are, in fact, old enough to purchase a can of Monster and gracing you with their woefully insecure three-digit user ID and password combo to confirm this fact in the eyes of the law.

"Just use the self-checkouts," you'll probably say. And that's sometimes fine. Except when you run into the inevitable Unexpected Item in Bagging Area incidents, or the aforementioned need to prove your legal worthiness to consume drinks that don't taste like anything Nature has ever produced, or you're buying a shirt with a security tag on it, or you're buying alcohol, or you have two packets of paracetamol in your basket, or… you get the idea.

A good example from my own experience is a rather middle-class problem, but it shows how these checkouts being inexplicably left fallow can be a genuine issue if you need to speak to an actual person in order to achieve something during your shopping trip. We have a SodaStream, and SodaStream does a thing where if you return your old gas cylinder at the same time as getting a new one, you get ten quid off the new one. It's worth doing, as it means you don't have to worry about disposing of bulky gas cylinders, and it's cheaper. Yet, as far as I'm aware, there is no means of carrying out this process yourself at the self-checkouts, meaning you need to go to a staffed checkout. If there's only one person working the staffed checkouts at any given time, this can mean you'll be in for a long wait. If you go in at the wrong time of day, when there are no people on the staffed checkouts, then you're fucked.

Like I say, it's a very middle-class example. But I'm sure there are other instances where you need (or just prefer) to interact with an actual human being, and there are times of day where that's literally impossible at this Sainsbury's. Why do they even have that many checkout aisles if they're never, ever going to use all of them?

Is it because they don't have the money to pay enough staff to man those checkouts? I doubt it, particularly since prices are through the roof. I can pop to the shop to get a few snacky bits and household bits and pieces — i.e. not a "big shop" — and easily spend £50 these days. That's more expensive than a video game! (For now, anyway.) I feel like if you spend more than it costs to get a new PlayStation game, you should come away with more than a few bags of crisps, bottles of drink and packets of cat food.

To be clear, I don't blame any of the workers staffing either the conventional checkouts or the self-checkout aisles for this. It is not their fault, and they probably wish they had more people helping out, too. It is, almost certainly, a failing of management, presumably initiated on the grounds that they want to "do more with less" or some other such LinkedIn platitude at their corporate overlords' behest. In that sense, it's probably not even the managers' fault, but instead, as with everything else, the blame can, without a doubt, be laid at the feet of the out-of-touch executive class and/or private equity.

One day we'll be free of all this. I don't know that. But I have to believe it. Because things don't seem to be getting a whole lot better right now, and the prospect of continuing to endure the world being such a shitty place is becoming increasingly intolerable.


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#oneaday Day 976: An Open Letter to the Robot Lady Who Lives in the Sainsbury's Self-Checkout Machines

Dear Robot Lady who lives in the Sainsbury's self-checkout machines,

I'm sorry to write to you out of the blue — and so publicly, too — but no longer can I go on with my life and our relationship without saying something.

It's not you, it's me. No, wait, it is you.

I know you're just doing your job. I know you're just reading the things that the nice people who pay your wages — do robots get wages? — tell you to read, but seriously. I know how to use you by now. I know that I jiggle the things I want to buy over your scanny bit until you go "bip!" and then I put them in a bag, and then I repeat the process until I want to pay. Then I put my card in and type in my number and we're all done. Then I go home and cook and/or eat the things I've paid you for.

This is all fine. You should know by now that I'm fine with this, as indeed are most of the people who avail themselves of your services.

So why are you so needy?

"Unexpected item in bagging area," you say as I put the item I've just told you to expect in said bagging area. "Checking item weight," you'll retort as I put an item that isn't sold by weight into the bagging area. "Approval needed," you'll helpfully inform me as I put an age-restricted product into the bagging area.

Why must you do this to me? I came to you because of your promises of efficiency; of not having to wait behind the old grandma who has bought fifteen thousand tins of dog food and a microwaveable corned beef hash; of not having to make small talk with a cashier who has to have a piece of paper taped to their console saying "SAY HELLO, THANK FOR WAITING, ASK HOW THEY ARE" in order to remember how to have a genuine interaction with another human being. I came to you because I thought you could help me and that you could ensure the whole miserable process of shopping in a supermarket is dealt with as quickly as possible. But you taunt me, you wound me by forcing me to stand around waiting for someone in a Sainsbury's fleece to notice the big flashing red light above my head — that light that seems to imply ha! this person fucked something up! HELP!

Your lack of faith in me is disturbing. Why can't you trust me? What have I ever done to you? I push all your buttons with loving care and attention and still you can't trust me. I've bought everything from a big slab of meat to a basket full of blind-bag My Little Pony figures from you, so you know I trust you. At least I did. Now I'm not so sure. Now all I want to do as soon as I see you is press your volume button until your voice goes quiet. Still you mock me from your screen, but at least I don't have to hear your voice any more. At least I don't have to deal with you talking at me just slightly too slowly and calmly to be comfortable. At least I don't have to put up with you telling me to do things I'm already doing. Your friends over at Tesco and Asda don't patronise me anywhere near as much. So why must you mock me, you damnable machine? Why?

We could have had something. Something special. But no. I'm sorry. This is it. No more.

Oh, what am I saying? I know I'll be back. I always am. I need you. I don't want to admit it, but I do. Together forever, enraptured in a relationship of mutual disdain, our lives pressing ever onward until our inevitable demise. I might buy some sushi from you tomorrow, or possibly a muffin. It doesn't really matter. Nothing really matters. Nothing except your cold, heartless slavery to the capitalist machine, and my ever-present need to buy food from you and then eat it.

Regards,

Pete