The Checkout Girl
TAZEEN AHMAD
My Life on the Supermarket Conveyor Belt
For Cogs everywhere
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Saturday, 8 November 2008
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Monday, 10 November 2008
Thursday, 13 November 2008
Friday, 14 November 2008
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Friday, 28 November 2008
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Friday, 5 December 2008
Saturday, 6 December 2008
Saturday, 13 December 2008
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Friday, 19 December 2008
Saturday, 20 December 2008
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Saturday, 27 December 2008
Saturday, 3 January 2009
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Friday, 9 January 2009
Saturday, 10 January 2009
Thursday, 15 January 2009
Friday, 16 January 2009
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Friday, 23 January 2009
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Friday, 30 January 2009
Saturday, 31 January 2009
Friday, 6 February 2009
Saturday, 7 February 2009
Friday, 13 February 2009
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Friday, 20 February 2009
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Friday, 27 February 2009
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Friday, 13 March 2009
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Friday, 20 March 2009
Saturday, 21 March 2009
Monday, 23 March 2009
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Friday, 27 March 2009
Saturday, 28 March 2009
Friday, 3 April 2009
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Friday, 10 April 2009
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Friday, 17 April 2009
Friday, 24 April 2009
Saturday, 25 April 2009
Friday, 1 May 2009
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Friday, 8 May 2009
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Copyright
About the Publisher
Except for a short stint in a superstore as a student many years ago, my experience of supermarkets had been the same as most people’s; I’d rush in to complete the dull but essential chore that is the weekly shop, I’d have no time for checkout girls and their small talk. I’d rebuff offers of help tactlessly, make demands as though they were machines programmed to serve me without complaint, and promptly forget their names and faces seconds after rushing out. Little did I know that, behind the identity badges, unflattering uniforms and quiet smiles were individuals taking note of my every quirk, comment and foible.
Never again will I shop the same way. And neither will you.
When I began my six-month career as a checkout girl, the country was reeling from the possibility that we were headed for a full-blown recession. President Obama’s election brought new optimism around the world but could not disguise the doom and gloom that lay ahead. The credit crunch and financial instability were one thing, but in the early autumn of 2008 things were about to get rocky for every man, woman and child in this country—as we slid into the worst recession the world has seen for decades.
Until that point the main casualties of the financial crisis were the banking institutions—Northern Rock, Lehman Brothers, Citigroup, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, along with mortgage lenders and insurance companies. Most ordinary people were still watching developments from a safe distance. However, unemployment figures were creeping up, redundancies and job losses were looming and food prices were on the rise.
As a mother running a busy home and working in a volatile industry I had started to count my own pennies. My grocery shopping was now leaving my wallet disconcertingly light. I’d push my trolley to the car park while staring at the receipt, aghast that the food in my bags now cost well in excess of a hundred pounds: I knew I had to make cutbacks. It was after one such shopping trip, clutching my hefty bill, that I turned back to look at the checkouts and it dawned on me—this was the front line of the recession, where the reality of the downturn really hit home. And that’s how I embarked on my quest to see what a billion-pound hole in our economy would really mean for us all.
Someone, with not much time for reporters, once told me that ‘Journalists always report from the outside in and so only ever see the story from a superficial vantage point.’ My episodes of immersive, experiential or undercover journalism have allowed me the privilege of reporting from the inside out. This requires a degree of individual sacrifice, intrusion, duplicity and commitment that usually leaves me slightly unhinged. However awkward it is personally, thankfully it serves the purpose of shedding light on the truth in a way that turning up with my notebook, pen and press pass never could do. This is that truth.
Why did I choose Sainsbury’s? Actually it chose me. Last autumn, jobs in retail were hard to come by and I searched and applied for a number