Amongst the weirdness that is currently my world, last night, in a small local supermarket, my daughter and I stopped for a pizza. It was half seven. And here I entered The Matrix.
While checking out what was on offer in the fresh pizza section, next to the end-of-day reductions chiller, a fellow shopper whispered, "Whole chicken, 80p. Around the corner." She left, chicken-in-bag-in-hand, like a chicken-bearing oracle in some Greek myth.
My daughter and I are vegetarians. My wife (her Mum) and the cats are not.
80p? Surely no?
Jess went to look, as I dragged out a cheese-laden £4 pizza worthy of the task of feeding us.
She returned. "Last one, it's 'end of day' at the cooked counter. Why didn't she take both?"
We discussed this later, but did not know.
It stank. Of fresh cooked chicken. Disgusting. But edible to some.
We made our way to the Self-Scans.
I scanned the pizza. £4.
I scanned the chicken. £3.99.
I beckoned the customer service colleague over. Due to this supermarket's woeful short staffing at this time of night, they are as rare as cooked chicken's teeth.
As she arrived, I said, "This scanner's read the wrong barcode, sorry. It's supposed to be 80p".
She cancelled the item, covered the £3.99 barcode with a finger, scanned again, and dropped the now 80p chicken in the bagging area. And then walked away.
"Excuse me," I said, worried that we'd not see her for another ten minutes, "but can you approve this void before we can continue to pay?"
She turned, stared, and approached me. "Approve this void?" Too close, I thought. Stared more at me - and then ... grabbed my arm. ISYN. This simply does not ever happen here.
"You know self-scan?" she asked.
"I do," I replied, taken aback by both the physical contact and the urgent tone in her voice. "I've just finished an eight hour shift at **** nearby, and have nine hours in there tomorrow."
Her eyes widened. She clearly knew her seven self-scans spread over 5m were nothing to ****'s twenty-two spread over about 20.
We (literally) talked shop for two minutes, sharing the horrors of self-scan in all its forms.
Meanwhile, the chicken continued to stink.
The cats, naturally, thirty minutes later, loved it.
During that drive home, daughter and I discussed the business model underlying any profitability of an 80p chicken.
And there really isn't one.
Andy