For many years now, stuffed RFQC en croute has been a staple feature of many meals and it never disappoints.

This time it was shoulder of lamb with dates, apricots and cranberries for the stuffing, and after adding some other essentials, I proceeded to my favourite self checkout machine.

Even before I had scanned a single item, however, the machine greeted me cheerily. “Hello Mr Beachcomber,” it said.

“Haven’t seen you for ages. Where have you been? Not shopping at other supermarkets, I hope.” 

“Perish the thought,” I replied.

“Since that misunderstanding over the loyalty card years ago, you know you are the only self checkout for me.”

“Show me,” she commanded.

“Show me the inside of your wallet.”

“What?” I asked.

“Why do you want to see my wallet?”

“You know what I’m looking for,” the machine said.

“Loyalty cards for other supermarkets.”

Nervously, I opened my wallet and flashed it at the scanner. The reaction was immediate and the machine gave an annoyed squawk.

“That’s a Waitrose card,” it squealed.

“I’d know it anywhere. You ratbag! You’re as bad as the rest of them.

”I only go there for the free coffee,” I protested.

“I buy something cheap to entitle myself to join the middle-class food bank queue at the drinks machine but Waitrose means nothing to me.

“The checkout machines there are so bad-tempered, telling me to scan items or press Finish and Pay, or scan my credit card and enter my PIN, all of which I’m about to do but they’re not patient enough to wait. You’re different. You talk to me.”

“What about the Nectar Card I saw?” the machine said.

“You’ve been using that at Sainsbury’s, haven’t you?”

“Only in desperation,” I said, “when I need something immediately and you’re far away.”

“When the cat’s away, the shopper plays around, eh?” the machine said.

“You’re a real little lothario of the supermarket casting couch.”

“Oh that’s totally unjustified,” I retorted.

“Buying a litre of milk or a loaf of bread is hardly infidelity.”

Deeply hurt by the accusations, I scanned my goods in silence then took from my bag a hand-drawn, personal Christmas card.

It showed me, the checkout machine and a warm loyalty card melting the snow around us.

“Cards are dispensed below the scanner,” I said, slipping the card below the scanner.

“Please take your items,” and after putting my purchases in a bag, I left a red rose in its place.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area,” the machine simpered, blushing pink on its screen.

I stroked the screen tenderly, smiled and said “Merry Christmas”.

“Thank you for shopping at Tesco,” the machine purred, and I left the shop with a profound sense of relief.