The Master of Tillepathy
The wrong queue every time
I have a new word that I would like to introduce to the language, and it is this:
Tillepathy: (abstract noun) An uncanny ability to choose the wrong queue at the supermarket checkout on every occasion. From the English word till, meaning a cash register.
I am the undisputed master of tillepathy. If you see me in a queue at the supermarket, no matter how short, you will be better off joining a longer one. For it is inevitable that something will happen in my queue to cause a hold up.
Tillepathy manifests itself in many ways, and one recent experience of mine serves as a typical example of the craft. The queue I was in was moving along quite normally until the barcode on a customer’s block of edam wouldn’t scan. The cause was a kink in the sticker, and the cashier tried several times to flatten it out before admitting defeat and keying in the code manually — after she had hunted down her spectacles. Other examples of recent tillepathic experiences include a cracked egg being discovered and a replacement carton sent for, someone actually taking the cashier up on the offer of help with their packing, causing a lengthy delay while a call for assistance was barked over the tannoy. Then there was the woman who thought, I kid you not, that being unable to remember her PIN was cause for merriment.
My finest tillepathic moment though came one Christmas, when there were queues at all the aisles in the supermarket. As I approached, I performed that cursory calculation we all do: weighing up the number of people in each queue against the number of items in their trolleys, and converting this data into a rough estimate of which queue will pass through the quickest. On this occasion I joined a short queue with only two people ahead of me.
Then I got lucky. The woman in front, who had enough food in her trolley to cater Noah’s Ark, suddenly blurted out “cranberry sauce!”, and with the heaviest of sighs, she hauled her trolley away from the checkout queues and set a course towards the aisle marked sauces and condiments.
With those languishing in the other queues looking on enviously, I confess to radiating a level of smugness as I took up the slack and loaded my shopping onto the belt. Then tillepathy kicked in.
The till roll needed replacing and the young girl on the checkout wasn’t sure how to perform the operation, so she pressed the button that triggered a flashing light on a pole in order to summon assistance. Those in the other queues saw this as a beacon of hope, and they watched proceedings with renewed optimism.
With the new roll in place, the girl scanned the shopping of the young man in front of me. He opted to pay in cash, and he pulled out coins from various pockets. He counted up what he had in his hand, and, after a final pat-down, announced that he was three pence short. He then paid by card.
With my shopping now in pole position, a member of staff approached and told the checkout girl to take her lunch break. The girl logged off and vacated the seat. Her replacement, who I must say was Queen of the Dawdlers, logged on, adjusted the seat and neatly laid out her spectacles, a pen and half a tube of Polos. Finally, I heard the beeping pulse of my shopping being scanned.
By this time though, those in the other queues had passed through ahead of me and a flotilla of trolleys sallied forth towards the exit, their pilots casting a satisfied glance to starboard, where my own vessel stood becalmed in aisle three.
I attract this sort of thing often, even at quiet times, and it is not confined to the supermarket checkout. If you are using a toll bridge and you see my car in a short queue, don’t drive towards it with a Homeresque cry of so long suckers to those in the longer queues. When you get behind me you’ll probably discover that the driver in front has missed the huge basket with his payment and is on his hands and knees, attempting to retrieve an errant five pence piece from under his car. At the filling station there may be only one car in front of me and three at all the other pumps, but don’t be tempted. I can assure you that the owner of the car at my pump will be inside the shop, happily loading up a basket with his weekly provisions before paying for his petrol.
A filling station was the setting for my most recent, and most frustrating, tillepathic experience. It was a Sunday morning and all the pumps were busy. As I turned in, I spotted a woman walking across the forecourt towards the kiosk so I pulled in behind her car. I watched through the kiosk window as the woman progressed to the front of the queue and, in no time at all, she emerged and was walking towards her car. Finally, I thought, starting my engine in preparation to move, my tillepathy is having a day off. But no. In a moment of realisation the woman stopped dead in her tracks and turned around. She picked up a newspaper from a rack and rejoined the queue inside the kiosk. It was a Devon Loch moment and it raised the suspicion that my tillepathy will be a lifelong affliction.
