The Supermarket Time Machine

Once upon a time – say, 1963 – my mother would set off, basket in hand, to visit half the high street just to cobble together enough food for a few days. It was a full-blown expedition: greengrocer for the carrots, butcher for the offal, baker for a crusty loaf and a chat about the vicar’s gallstones. You’d come home with sore feet, a dozen paper-wrapped parcels, and the sort of satisfaction that only comes from knowing exactly which cow your mince came from.

Then, somewhere around 1972, the supermarket swaggered onto the scene like a dodgy messiah in a nylon tie. “Everything under one roof!” it promised. “Low prices! Convenience! Packaged cheese with the emotional range of a traffic cone!” We surrendered the high street for the hum of fluorescent lights and the thrill of the Buy One Get One Free sticker. It was all going so well.

Until yesterday.

Today, in our brave new world of algorithmic stock control and air-freighted kumquats, I found myself doing the full 1960s circuit – but instead of a friendly butcher and the aroma of fresh bread, I had three supermarkets and a rising sense of existential despair.

Shop One had 97 kinds of milk but not a single bottle of full-fat (although they did have a nice mini toolset for £9.99 for No.s 2 Son's new motorbike). Shop Two had full-fat milk but no fresh dill – only something called basil purée, which looked like it had been scraped off a bus stop. Shop Three had the herbs (well overpriced - but it was Waitrose), but by then my will to live was dangling by a thread, right next to the out-of-stock sign for own-brand butter.

So much for the one-stop shop. What we’ve got now is a one-stop disappointment, followed by two further stops to chase down the basics – all while dodging self-checkouts that bark at you like Daleks and staff who vanish like woodland creatures the moment you make eye contact.

Waitrose must self-checkouts must have the slowest speed of any checkout in existence. Instead of electricity, they must run on dripping water.  

And don’t get me started on substitutions. Order online and you ask for crème fraîche – they give you coleslaw. Ask for Dijon mustard, they send you a compass. Ask for eggs, you get a note saying “Sorry – not in stock. Try a chicken.”

In short, the supermarket has come full circle. It started as the solution and has become the problem – a sprawling, soulless pantomime of abundance that somehow still manages to run out of bloody tinned tomatoes.

Back to the future, indeed – only now, the baker doesn’t know your name, the butcher’s been replaced by shrink-wrap, and the only person you chat to is an electronic till that tells you to place your item in the bagging area.