Another day looms behind the counter of doom. I think the supervisors may have worked out that it was me who wrote "Good riddance" on the leaving card of one of the till girls who was leaving to have a nervous breakdown in peace. I don't suppose it helped that I sent her a musical card with the sound chip slightly modified to play the "beep" sound of a barcode scanner. Still, I hear mental hospitals are a lot nicer these days.

I say the supervisors guessed as they've allocated me to the "naughty corner", or rather, the one till in the shop that faces the opposite way to the others. This can take some getting used to, but as a Bastard Checkout Operator From Hell, you take this sort of novelty in your stride. The advantage of this position is that you're facing all of the other tills. As Kathleen on till 11 soon found out, it can be off-putting to have someone facing you. I don't suppose having the love letters from Jim on toiletries from her locker dangled in front of her eyes was that comforting. Well, not as comforting as her getting them back after donating a large quantity of cash to the Bastard Chocolate Biscuit and iPod fund. She knew it made sense, at least if she didn't want the rest of the shop to know about her pregnancy.

Staff morale thus improved, I could concentrate on having a nice nap on the job. Modern tills are so easy to use, it's often said that one could work them in one's sleep. Having put this to the test I'm forced to concur - I spent 45 minutes in a state of advanced slumber before an eagle-eyed supervisor noticed that when asked if I needed change I merely rolled my head to the side and asked for a cup of coffee. Damn sleep-talking. At least she woke me up before I got my first Awkward Customer of the morning.

She was a little old lady who comes in at least three times a day. Security are convinced that she's stealing something but they've not managed to catch her yet. Her routine is simple - she picks up a packet of toilet rolls and a bottle of drink from the fridge, then joins the longest queue she can possibly find and grumbles about having to wait. On reaching the front of the queue she decides that now would be a great time to sort out her labyrinthine purse in order to find the one pound fifty-eight pence in varying copper coins (from a 1p piece to a Euro ten cent coin) and then a further ten minutes to neatly fold her receipt into one of the hundred or so pockets which adorn her customised shopping trolley.

Someone must once have told her that the customer is always right, which is of course total fiction. The Bastard Checkout Operator is always right, as you already knew. I fear she needed reminding as she tried to give me an American quarter as part of her payment.

"I'm afraid I can't accept this, love, it's not legal tender here."

"Yes it is! It's a 2p coin!"

"No, it's an American quarter."

"No it isn't."

"If it isn't, it's the first 2p coin I've seen with 'One Quarter' and the head of some president on it."

"It's a special edition."

"It's an American edition. I can't accept it."

"Well they gave me it in Superboots."

"That's because they're all a few IQ points short of a pencil sharpener. It's not legal tender here." (and so are you, dear, so please go away)

"You people don't know what you're talking about. And you're always slow - I had to queue for ages to get served."

"I'm sure we'd be a lot quicker if silly old bats like you weren't so daft and stubborn. Now for goodness' sake, take your shopping and go. I don't care about the 2p."

It's funny - anyone who's ever watched Thunderbirds will verify that the strings controlling the puppets are very much visible. I can't think how the old biddy managed to miss the one tied at ankle height across the till-back. Still, at least she got a lift home. Via the hospital. She won't be arguing again.

--

Later on that day, I get a middle-aged woman (the men seem to have stayed at home today) who has one of the new-fangled Chip and Pin cards, and hasn't quite worked out how to use it yet.

"That's twelve pounds seventy-six, please." I say in my usual tone, pretending that I really care. She proffers her card, and I slot it into the reader, after having to wiggle the wires at the back and pull one of the keys out with the pin from a security tag from where it had stuck. Nice to see that the quality ethos of the shop extends to the equipment.

"Could you check the amount on the screen and press OK for me please?" I prompt. She takes the pad as if it's a live grenade and peers at it for a minute or so. "You just need to press the green button." I gently indicate the key.

She starts pressing number keys. Nice to see she's been listening.

"You ONLY need to press OK! The GREEN button right in front of you. No, that one's Cancel. And that one's a random unnamed button which disables your card, as if you're idiotic enough to press it then you evidently can't be trusted with anything more complicated than play money or High Street Vouchers."

Finally I get her to understand how to confirm the amount, and she presses the damn button. The screen then prompts her to enter her PIN.

"Do you know your PIN?" I ask, not expecting miracles. I wonder she can remember where she lives and whether her knickers are the right way round.

"Yes, it's 4 - 3..." she begins as I cut her off.

"No! Don't tell me - type it into the machine and press OK."

"But someone might see it over my shoulder."

"Considering you've just announced it to everyone within a 10-foot radius, I can't see that being a major concern right now. And you could always take the radical step of putting a hand over the pad to shield it as you key in the number."

She keys in the number and waits. And waits. And waits. As usual, she's neither listened nor read the instructions and as such hasn't pressed OK. Yet more gentle prompting ensues (as I threaten to break her fingers with a hammer if she doesn't press the bloody button) and she hits the button to be greeted by the baritone bleep the pad emits if the number is wrong.

In the name of good security, she delves into her handbag and pulls out a diary. What an original place to store your secure details - a bag thief is never going to think of looking in there. And I wouldn't have copied it down for later use, either, would I? You didn't see anything. She certainly didn't - I've seen more awareness in a blind, deaf budgerigar (my aunt has very odd pets).

Still, if people like her didn't exist, I wouldn't have my nice new hi-fi. I doubt she'd even noticed it on her credit card statement anyway, or remember that she hadn't bought it. There's one born every minute, apparently, so I'd better get back looking for the next one.