Self service checkout torture

Passover stuff away, I spend a delirious breakfast of multiple toasts with Marmite, leafing through recipe books thinking about what the day's celebratory baking is going to yield. I settle on a loaf of wholemeal bread, almond and caramel cheesecake, and chocolate and Crunchie bar squares. I need to buy half of the ingredients, so I hobble up to my local supermarket to stock up. Supermarket shopping is a challenge - nobody on crutches can either push a trolley or carry a basket - so I have evolved an ingenious method which consists of, hooking a small but robust bag over one of my crutch handles, and hobbling round the supermarket filling it up. Then I deposit it all at the checkout, pay for it, and put it all in my back pack, together with the bag. The most fun bit about this approach is that it looks as if I am barefacedly on the nick. An honest person all my life, I cannot help getting a tiny kick out of the sidelong glances of other shoppers in whose expressions you can read, did she just put that cheese INTO HER BAG? WITHOUT PAYING? I realise this is a small and pretty infantile pleasure but look, I haven't exercised properly in three months so I have to get my endorphins from somewhere.So. I hop and hobble from aisle to aisle stocking up on caramel chips, confectioner's sugar, butter and the like, and since it's Saturday, by the time I get to the checkout every aisle is heaving. So I make the highly ill judged decision to use the self service checkout. This is a mistake. I know it is a mistake just as I know that taking the bus instead of the tube during rush hour is a mistake - just as switching lanes in your car to the one you think is slowest is always a bad call - just as the outfit you change at the last minute before you go out on a sexy date, don't check in the mirror,and only discover when you are too far away from your home to correct things, that there is pancake goo on the hem - but, like all these things, I do it anyway. It is an impulse decision made in a moment of stress. I regret it immediately. I regret it when I look at the screen and it says, begin, or, own bag? I press, own bag. It asks me to put my bag on the scale. I do. And it crashes. I start again. Press begin, or own bag? I press begin. I scan my first item and put it in their bag. The screen crashes. Please call an attendant, the voice says. I look around. No sign of an attendant, and on crutches with a bunch of goods I cannot pick up and take with me, I am now trapped. We have all of us who shop at these supermarkets been taken in by the self service checkout. It is very important we all understand what they are really there for. They are not there to make our lives easier. They are there to ease congestion in the serviced checkout and therefore make the staffs' lives easier. That it takes us twice as long to use the sodding self service checkout because you only have to breathe for the screen to freeze on you and alarm bells to start flashing, is not a matter of concern to the parent company of my local supermarket. After all, I'm trapped right? I'm not going to leave my precious chocolate chips and self raising flour. They are right about this but there are other ways to rebel and I put them into action. I hop to Customer Service. I quote disability legislation. I point to my food. I talk about poor customer service. I reference consumer programmes like Ripoff Britain, fluently. I demand a chair. And the manager. Fifteen minutes later I leave the supermarket, my goods scanned and bagged by the manager her flustered self, money off vouchers in my pocket. Excellent. I hop home, hit Kiss FM, wrap an apron around myself, flex my hands, crack my knuckles, and I am off. It's good to be back.