Two Modern Conversations

1

I walk into a branch of Tesco Express. Not one I use frequently — perhaps two or three times a year. I pick up the few things I need. I go over to the tills. And then I see that something has changed since I was last here. The staff are now standing behind heavy-duty, floor-to-ceiling glass screens, complete with microphones and speakers. They are entirely cut off from everyone else.

For a second I wonder if I’ve gone through a time blip, back into the Covid era. Within the context of this small shop, the set-up is borderline comical. It makes airport security look like a welcoming committee at a theme park.

“This is new,” I say. “When did you have it all done?”

“About two months ago,” says the staff member, her eyebrows rising into a what-can-you-do expression of resignation.

“What’s it for? You didn’t need this kind of thing before.”

“Yes, well… we weren’t spat at before.”

“Spat at?!”

“Oh yeah. Spat at. Abused. Threatened. You wouldn’t believe what I get called here. It happens all the time.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you know we’re going through a cost of living crisis?”

“Yes, but… that’s no reason for people to behave like that towards you.”

“You tell them that.”

I stand there for a few moments, not knowing what to say next. “Has it helped?”

“Not really. Now they just bang on the glass. But at least the spit doesn’t land on us.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “it won’t stop here. We’ll be wearing body cams next.”

I try to give her my most reassuring smile, and I leave.

I have since found out that in some other branches of Tesco, staff members do, indeed, wear body cams.

—

2

The doorbell rings. It’s the FedEx man. Today, he seems worried and frazzled — not his usual, efficiently polite self. It’s a warm day, but I don’t think the sweat on his brow is a result of the heat.

He hands over a parcel and then looks at the scanning gadget in his hand, giving it a shake. “Stupid machine,” he says.

“Is everything all right?”

“It’s this thing. The battery’s run out, so head office can’t track me. I’ve got them calling me every five minutes, asking where I am, what I’m doing.”

“That must be annoying.”

“Total nightmare. Please can you do me favour, sir,” he says, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. On it, he’s drawn a table with times, signatures and postcodes. “Can you sign this and write down the time. It’s the only way I’ll be able to prove where I’ve been.”

“Of course, no problem. But do you really need to do this? Won’t they trust that you’ve just got on with your job?”

“Trust?” he says, his voice rising. He stays silent for a few moments — the look on his face suggesting there’s nothing he needs to add to the incredulity in his tone.

I thank him. He thanks me. Then he walks away, giving the gizmo in his hand another rueful shake.

Dariush