To us they are just cogs in the supersonic wheel of our supermarkets, but Checkout Girls and Guys—or Cogs, as I secretly referred to them—have incredible stories to tell and intriguing interwoven lives of their own. Behind the tills, in the shopping aisles, across the customer service desk, beyond the doors leading to the back of the store and upstairs in the canteen and locker rooms, family dramas are played out, love affairs and friendships flourish and sometimes wilt. Here, several members of one family work together, along with friends who grew up together, neighbours, former school friends and flat-mates. At times it’s like a small, cosmopolitan village, at others like a big, bustling, multi-racial family. And on a daily basis they welcome us as shoppers right into the heart of their community while unwittingly becoming spectators to our personal and financial dramas. Against all my expectations I walked straight on to the set of a gripping soap opera in which all of us have a walk on part. The Cogs I met were in Sainsbury’s, but they are in every supermarket and in every town—and they are watching you. This is their story.
The Checkout Girl
So here I am. Day One. My hair’s tied back, my shoes are low-heeled and sensible but even though I’ve got my orange name-badge on, I’m still me. That may be because I haven’t been given my bright blue polyester polo shirt and high-waisted, wide-bottomed, narrow-legged, creased-down-the-front trousers yet.
At Sainsbury’s, becoming a checkout girl or ‘Cog’ requires a two-day training course. Staff recruitment is serious business here, and as I wait in the canteen I’m given a quick summary of what we’ll learn today: the supermarket’s raison d’être, history, financial status, aims and objectives, health and safety rules and, most significantly, its guiding mottos:
‘Do you want your bonus? Then, always smile, take the customer to the product and offer an alternative. Above all, be friendly.’
The mantras are many in number and imprinted on beige-cream A4 pages, crumpling a little at the corners, stuck all the way up the stairwell. And right next to the clocking-in and (equally importantly for all supermarket workers) the clocking-out machine is a poster signed by shop-floor staff all promising to ‘smile more’, ‘be more helpful’, and ‘treat the customer like someone special’. These are the Cogs’ countless messages pledging allegiance and promising to be better at their jobs. It reads like a giant farewell card written by signees at gun point.
Our trainer finds it impossible to refrain from bragging about how well this store is doing.
‘The credit crunch has not affected us,’ we are told. ‘We are set to take a million by the end of this week,’ she crows, smiling smugly. ‘We’ve already taken £16,000 on clothes today.’ Her grin is now wider than a Cheshire cat.
We have to sign the contract on the spot and hand it back immediately. When I ask if I can get a copy, I am brashly told, ‘You’ll get one once Personnel have signed it,’ with no indication given of when that might be.
Sickness policy: There is no sick pay for six months and if you are ill you only get statutory sick pay.
Holidays: You need to book that now.
Overtime: Whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to put in extra hours and swap shifts. ‘It’s a matter of “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”’
Breaks: One hour unpaid lunch for checkout staff if you do a full day. But depending on the number of hours worked this could be a fifteen-, twenty-, thirty- or forty-five-minute paid break. On top of lunch? Instead of lunch? I’m not clear and she doesn’t provide clarification either.
The locker comes at a deposit of £5, so technically that’s an hour from your pay docked already. And don’t even think about clocking in until AFTER you’ve been to your locker and are ready to head on to the shop floor.
Sainsbury’s is at the top of its game, she tells us. However, Tesco has inconveniently pipped it to the No. 1 post, and Asda, with its marriage to Walmart, has shoved Sainsbury’s into third place.
‘I don’t think we’ll ever be No. 1,’ says our trainer wistfully. ‘We compete with those two on price, but M&S and Waitrose on quality.’ Whispering for effect, she adds, ‘I shop at Marks and Spencer when I want something special, but some people actually come here for the same reason.’
We are told about the mystery customer who shops in the store to test the full Sainsbury’s experience. Today I learn that this supermarket’s philosophy is almost entirely defined by the Mystery Customer Measure (MCM), and the bonus that could line everyone’s pocket if they give the store the thumbs-up. He or she will come in twice a month and sample every single aspect of the store—the petrol station, the café, the toilets, the shop floor, customer service, checkouts. If the store gets an average rating of 80 per cent or more over a full period, everyone gets a small bonus. ‘We’ve had a couple of 80-plus per cents,’ we’re told. There are also additional incentives known as ‘shining stars’ for staff to go that extra mile to please customers. If the mystery shopper (or in fact any customer) mentions the name of a particularly helpful member of staff then a £10 voucher is awarded to the named employee. ‘Justin’—Justin King, Chief Executive of Sainsbury’s—‘has been so generous this year,’ we are told. ‘Above and beyond all the normal store cut prices, he’s given us an extra 15 per cent discount to shop with this Christmas. We’re being paid to take it away, basically.’
We spend the next few hours familiarising ourselves with the store layout and learn about the multiple ranges: Basics (cheap and cheerful), Taste the Difference (high-end foods), Different by Design (non-foods luxury range), TU (bargain-basement clothes), Be Good to Yourself (healthy range), So Organics (organic food). But getting to know my fellow Cogs is the most enjoyable part of the day. We are all struggling to swallow the corporate spiel we’re being spun. I have to admit that I had preconceived ideas as to who these people were, and they are certainly not what I expect: ex-professionals, trainee professionals and soon-to-be professionals. They include a law graduate who is going to travel for two hours each way to work the night shift, a middle-aged woman with a long and illustrious career behind her who, in tough times, cannot find another job. And then there is Rebecca, who I love after exactly zero point two minutes; a vivacious, petite redhead in her mid-thirties who battles to disguise her sarcastic deadpan sense of humour. She is training and working all week long and has taken on weekend work following a dramatic pay cut. She has two teenage sons to put through college soon so ‘needs must’ she tells me privately. Throughout the day, we catch each other’s eye when we should be paying attention and fight to stop ourselves from collapsing into a heap of giggles.
By the end of Day One, I’ve learned that those at the bottom of the rung have about as many rights as the frozen chicken sitting in aisle 33. And that, if I’m to believe what I’m told, the recession is as far from this particular branch of Sainsbury’s as the TU range is from haute couture fashion. But I look at my new colleagues and can’t help thinking that, for as long as the country is in economic meltdown, here on the supermarket floor is where the recession is really going to make its mark. The real victims are the