Hurled Back to Life in the 21st century

A lot of strange things have happened in England since I've been away. There is no bell rung in the pub at ten to eleven. Tony Blair is no longer Prime Minister. And people have been replaced by robots.

Yes, robots.

I innocently walk into the local Co-op on my first weekend back in Britain, a very posh supermarket in the classy Oxford suburb of Summertown which tellingly sells red split lentils, unpronounceable fruit juices and organic wholemeal couscous. All those things which are cheap, staple foods in third world countries, but which in England are the most fashionable of fashionable foods - ridiculously overpriced, exotic-sounding AND healthy!

Finally back in Blighty, I'm quite excited about the prospect of being able to buy a copy of the Guardian and some coconut macaroons, but my plan to just nip in and out is thwarted by massively long checkout queues. Until I spot a suspiciously short little queue at the far end, and smugly stroll over, wondering why no-one else has done the same. Then I realise.

BECAUSE THE CASHIER IS A ROBOT.

Christ. Terrifying. I clutch my newspaper and scoot back into line behind three enormous trolleys.

The following week, having grabbed a carton of cranberry juice to enjoy with my Saturday paper, I discover, to my horror, that due to the Co-op's abnormally empty state, there are no cashiers. Except the Robot. Oh God.

I shuffle over and touch the screen. A friendly female voice greets me and instructs me to scan my items. I make it go beep. "Please place the item in the bag" says Robot Lady. I frown. I don't want a bag. I put my macaroons NEXT to the bag, to one side.

"Please select your payment option" I stick my card into the slot and am requested to wait. So I pick up the Guardian to glance at the headlines.

"Please place the item BACK in the bag" growls Robot Lady. What?! How the hell does she know???!!

I give the screen a filthy glare, knotting my brow as much as possible. Robot Lady does not seem fased by this death-defying scowl. I sheepishly place my paper back next to the plastic bags. The hideous piece of technology pretends not to care.

The transaction complete, I tuck the cranberry juice and Guardian under my arm, give the screen one last evil grimace, and flounce out of the store with my purchases.