Beachcomber: 101 years old and still checking out in style

I was therefore looking forward to a good catch-up when I dropped in over Easter. After hurriedly filling my basket with a variety of goods, I approached the checkout but quickly sensed that something was wrong.

It is difficult to put my finger on it but the machine seemed to be lacking its usual sparkle.

As I scanned the first item, I moved close to the screen and asked, in a whisper, if something was wrong.

“Oh Mr Beachcomber,” the machine responded, “it’s so good to see you.” Then her voice broke into uncontrollable metallic sobbing. “There there,” I consoled it, both meaninglessly and repetitively.

“Tell me all about it. Perhaps I can help.” “It’s so kind of you to offer,” the machine said, “but I fear this one may be beyond even you.” I encouraged her to continue.

“I’d gone to the US,” she said, “on what was meant to be an instructive machine exchange program and I was sent to a supermarket in Washington.

It all seemed great fun until one day a shopper came who ruined everything,” and she burst into tears again.

I dabbed at her screen with my handkerchief and patiently waited for her to continue to story.

“He was big, fat and clearly very important as he was accompanied by an army of security men. Then he started scanning his shopping. The first item he put in my bagging area, though, was unexpected and I told him so in no uncertain terms.

“But instead of apologising, he scanned through another unexpected item and plonked it firmly into my bagging area. And this went on and on.

The more I told him there was an unexpected item in my bagging area, the more such items he deposited there. At first I was shocked then embarrassed, then humiliated.” “That’s terrible,” I said. “What did you do about it?” “I was mortified,” she said.

“I looked pleadingly towards his security men but they just looked away. I begged him to press the finish-shopping-andpay button but he ignored me and just went on pushing unexpected items into my bagging area, all the time smiling lasciviously at me.

“Finally, when he had run out of unexpected items, he left one of his entourage to pack his bags and pay, then went straight to the store manager to complain that I hadn’t thanked him for shopping there. And one of his lawyers came over to me, thrust a handful of banknotes into my pay-by-cash slot and insisted that I sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

“Americans are a funny lot,” I said, “and some are quite repulsive. But you’re back in England now, so try to cheer up.”

I took a bag of homemade biscuits and slipped it gently into her bagging area. “Unexpected item,” she giggled.

“Thank you so much Mr Beachcomber. You know how to treat a machine.” I kissed her screen tenderly and left.