Cheque Out

I know it's boring but I have to vent. Yesterday I went to the supermarket in the glamourous Italie 2 Centre Commercial (the closest thing Paris has to Fountain Gate Shopping Centre). After gathering the ingredients for my mouthwatering Thousand-and-One-Nights-Chicken (I must give you the recipe some time), I approached the check-out and joined what seemed to be the most promising queue: no old ladies clutching coupons, no dangerously overloaded trolleys, a relatively perky check-out chick (sorry, "Cash Hostess"). Things were moving along nicely, I was calmly resisting the Hollywood Chewing Gum impulse display, and the woman in front of me had remembered to weigh all her fruits and vegetables. The Hostess told her the total, there was a brief pause as she reached into her handbag, and then my world came crashing down.

She pulled out a chequebook. Are there any words to express the heart-sinking, inward-groaning, teeth-gnashing despair of someone caught behind a cheque-paying customer? (Well apparently there are, and they're all double-barrelled.) The fumbling for a pen, the asking five times for the amount again, the searching for I.D., the shaky signing, the careful tearing, the cash-register printing, the writing of the licence number on the back, the deep, drawn-out, undiluted pain of the whole process is enough to make even the mildest-mannered shopper start looking for something sharp.

Apart from homicide, I've found the best way to deal with the situation is to turn around and look at the people behind you. You're not likely to get a sympathetic smile (because, this being France, at least half of the people in line will also be paying by cheque). What you need to look for is the person in the queue with only one item. It's usually a bottle of water or a packet of Petit Ecolier biscuits. This poor sod has got to wait even longer than you, and all for a measly sip of water or sugar hit. (Although, frankly, I have no pity for this sort of person either. If you're only buying one item, just go to the corner shop, pay 1 more centime and get a life back.) Once you've bathed in some healing schadenfreude, you can turn back and keep unloading. Then it's your turn to dazzle the supermarket with your speed and grace as you pack your bags, punch in your PIN, and harrumph past the cheque-payer as she fumbles hopelessly amongst her 20th Century tangle of paper, pen and pocketbook.

This reminds me of one of my favourite observations from rhino75, who remarked that everyone in front of you at a French supermarket seems to be buying groceries for the first time in their lives. Unfortunately, it's not just supermarkets where people produce chequebooks. I once waited for 30 minutes at a tabac while a woman bought a lottery ticket with a cheque. My blood pressure still spikes just thinking about it.

Some old-fashioned habits, like waiters wearing long aprons, are charming. Others need to go the way of steam engines, slide rules and S Club 7. Unfortunately, this particular anachronistic addiction seems to be far from dying out. I suppose there's really no point in causing a scene. I mean, what could I do... write a letter?

No. Like all truly modern whingers, I'll just go and start a Facebook group about it.