The supermarket itself is relatively new, having replaced another one further down the road where I had been a regular customer for many years. While the new store is certainly larger, slicker and more modern, I find myself missing the old one. Not because of the building, but because of its people.
Built before self-checkouts became the norm, it was designed around human interaction. There were staffed checkout aisles, familiar faces and the small exchanges that come from seeing the same people week after week.
Over the years I noticed that the store often employed people with minor disabilities. One employee in particular stood out. Her name was Sarah. She was always friendly, with a beautiful smile, and whenever I saw her I would greet her by name.
During today’s shopping trip, I joined the only staffed checkout and recognised the employee serving customers. He had worked at the old supermarket too. I mentioned that I remembered seeing him at the previous store. He complimented me on my memory, but I told him I always remember a friendly face.
We chatted while he scanned my groceries. He lamented the fact that the old supermarket building had now sat vacant for more than two years. He also mentioned that some former staff members had passed away since its closure.
Then he mentioned Sarah.
He seemed surprised that I remembered her immediately. I told him I would often seek her out at the checkout because she brought such warmth to the job. Sadly, she had died at the age of around forty.
Without a visible name tag, I asked him to remind me of his name. The moment he said it, I remembered.
Michael.
As he placed the final bag into my trolley, I looked around. To my left and right stretched rows of self-checkouts. I joked that I was unlikely to form much of a connection with checkout number 7, 5 or 1 for that matter.
I understand the need for progress and efficiency. Technology has brought many conveniences. But where does human connection fit into all of this?
Supermarket shopping may not rank highly among life’s great pleasures, yet when it includes genuine human interaction it nourishes more than our stomachs. It can also nourish our wellbeing.
Research consistently tells us that social connection is one of the strongest predictors of health, happiness and longevity. Yet we often think of connection in terms of family gatherings, close friendships or community events. What we overlook are the countless small interactions that colour our days: the smile from a cashier, the familiar greeting from a shop assistant, the brief conversation with someone who remembers your name.
These moments may seem insignificant, but they help create a sense of belonging. They remind us that we matter – that we are seen.
These days, much of my contact with supermarket staff involves weaving around their trolleys as they fill online orders or occasionally asking where to find a particular item. For someone who lives alone or experiences social isolation, a trip to the supermarket may be one of the few conversations they have all week.
And no, I am not suggesting more sophisticated self-checkouts that greet us with an automated voice. I am talking about real people. People like Sarah and Michael.
I have no doubt that our brief conversation brightened Michael’s day. And hearing the news about Sarah reminded me that even the smallest connections can leave a lasting impression. That’s the power of human connection.
We rarely know the impact we have on another person’s day, or how long a simple act of kindness may stay with them.
As society becomes increasingly automated, from supermarkets to high streets and beyond, let us not forget one of the things that truly oils our communities and enriches our lives: human connection.
No machine, no matter how efficient, can ever replace that.
May Sarah’s memory be a blessing.
