What is shopping in 2026?  For me it means getting in the car, going along roads jam packed with deep potholes and finding a space in the car park.  Then I load up with several shopping bags.  I approach the doors already fed up.

I'm greeted by.... nothing.  No welcome from the surly staff, who go around heads down, with the deportment of Quasimodo.  I first come across the pre-packed mushrooms.  Aren't mushrooms supposed to be white?  These look like they need serious cosmetic help, especially with the wrinkles.  I walk on.

I approach the cheeses, again sealed against humanity in plastic with primary colour labelling.  They have the same look as a puppy at the animal sanctuary.  I feel guilty as I walk past, not releasing a bag from the cage.

The milk.  Don't you think milk is cocky?  A container has an air of arrogance.  'You need me',  'you don't have a choice, buy me - now!'.  I do, but not with pleasure, more a resigned defeat.

The same happens over and over again.  Bread, biscuits, cat food... nothing fancy.  I know that I'm starting to stoop.  I approach the till, and the battle begins.

The opening salvo is always the same.  'You alright?' says the assistant.  I really want to say 'No, I'm sick and tired of this pathetic excuse for shopping and customer service'.  'Yes I'm fine thanks', I reply meekly.  I've mastered the art of moving my mouth to say words, but thinking something else.

The starting gun then sounds.  The goods are in the trolly.  I have to get them out and pile them up in a small space.  The assistant scans the goods... beep, beep, beep.  I then have to put them in to shopping bags in a great rush.  Who will win?

When all that has finished, the lull begins.  The time passes as the assistant wants you to pay an extortionate amount of money.  I take my time, pretending not to be able to find my wallet.  I'm enjoying this bit.  It feels like revenge.  The bank card approaches the handheld gadget.  I don't tap and pay, I spin out the drama by putting my card in and entering my PIN.  Of course, I pretend not to remember the PIN, and occasionally look up at the assistant, who is now close to seeking medical help.  

Eventually, the battle closes.  I leave.  'Bye', I said.  No reply.  The next customer is already going through the whole rigmarole again.  The assistant hears the beeps.  I hear the sound of coffee.

It could and should be very different.  Customer service should not be an extra.  So, my advice to you dear reader, is to support your local small trader, the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer.  You'll enjoy the experience of shopping far more than the inhuman, soulless experience of supermarkets.