I'm Here to Help

I was wandering through Tesco the other day – as one does when in search of distraction, biscuits or both – when I noticed a curious phenomenon. Amid the whooshing trolleys, passive-aggressive tutting, and bafflingly complex meal deals, there stood a figure holding aloft a laminated placard that read, “I’m here to help.”

Now, I’ve seen a few cults begin like this. All we’re missing is a robe and a chanting circle in the baked goods aisle. But instead of sidling over and asking where they keep the tahini, I found myself tempted to ask them something altogether more existential.

“Are we but fleeting specks in an uncaring cosmos, Kevin?” 

“Can free will truly exist in a world governed by Tesco Clubcard pricing?” 

“Where is the self, Kevin? Is it behind the deli counter?”

Of course, Kevin – if that is his real name – would blink at me blankly, half-expecting I’d simply mislaid the aubergines, or was the sort of man who thinks 'Søren Kierkegaard' is a new Scandi bakery line. But surely, if one is here to help, one must be prepared for all eventualities – not just to point to the bog roll.

Because here’s the rub: nobody ever specifies what they’re here to help with. It’s like calling your political party “Reform” – it sounds nice and active, but covers a multitude of sins. “I’m here to help” might mean reuniting you with your trolley, or it might mean spiritually guiding you through a midlife crisis by the tinned tuna. Who can say?

And perhaps that’s the problem. The modern supermarket is now so vast, so labyrinthine, so bloody full of novelty hummus, that its very scale demands a new breed of shepherds. Gone is the wise village grocer who knew your name, your ailments, and your weekly order of sliced corned beef. Now we’ve got Stacey from seasonal produce clutching a stick like Moses in a hi-vis tabard, ready to lead you through the parting aisles of multipack crisps.

So next time I spot one of these supermarket Samaritans, I might just test the limits of their helpfulness. “Excuse me – do you believe consciousness is a by-product of neural complexity, or evidence of a universal substrate of awareness?” And when Kevin mutters, “Erm… aisle five, maybe?” – I shall nod sagely, whisper “Of course,” and vanish into the frozen veg, leaving him to question his life choices.

If nothing else, it’ll break up the monotony.

And isn’t that, in its own way, a kind of help?