Why there is a Cucumber in the Kitchen

 

The Teenager needs a passport photograph.

One where you are looking straight into the camera with an unsmiling face. One where there is no hair obscuring your eyes. One where there are no other people just out of shot.

Last time I took the passport photograph it was a nightmare. It was hard trying to get the proportions right, and then coaxing the printer into printing it onto the glossy paper; glossy paper that was in limited supply and had a right and a wrong side.

I decided that even though the photo booth charges five pounds that it would be worth it going there to get it done. It would save so much angst and time.

So we went to Morrisons.

Of course I only had notes so we needed change.

And everyone knows that the best way to get change is to buy a cucumber.

So we bought a cucumber.

Then we went to the self service check out machines.

Such machines as soon as they realise a teenager is in the vicinity instantly behave themselves. This one was no exception. It opened up its screens before him without any hesitation, and then fawned before him. It allowed him to select fresh produce and didn’t even dream of not showing him the cucumber section. After a few dabs at the screen and the cucumber was ours…well almost.

I didn’t know where to put the note.

In Morrisons the feed for notes is down somewhere down at knee level, out of sight. It takes some finding.

Then the machine chugged out the change but surprised me by not rattling coins into a tray but by issuing a £5 note. So we still didn’t have enough coins for the photo booth.

So we go along to customer services and explain what we are trying to do. She exchanges the five pound note for coins very quickly but can not give me more than four one pound coins as she is running low on change.

However, after I team these coins up with one from the car we are ready.

The Teenager takes his place.

A woman’s voice talks. He is told to raise his chair, to check where his eyes are, to ensure that the outer curtain is shut.

It begins.

He feeds in the coins and waits.

There is a flash.

He giggles.

There is a second flash.

“It’s not working,” The Teenager says.

There’s another flash.

“It’s just repeating the first picture.”

There’s another flash.

“Choose your best picture,” orders the photo booth’s robotic voice.

“It hasn’t worked. Look,” says The Teenager.

I pull back the grey curtain and look.

His first photo has been duplicated four times. This wouldn’t have been a problem, but in it he is looking down, hair is over his eyes and he has a broad toothy smile.

I go back to Customer Services and someone comes out to have a look.

I try to explain what happened, but it all sounds like gobbledegook.

“It took the first photo and then duplicated it, and did not take any further ones although it did flash.”

It sounds like nonsense. The assistant without saying a word obviously thinks that The Teenager must have pressed the wrong button, that we have made a mistake or that we are larking around.

“Don’t press anything,” she says, and she goes away.

“Choose your photo,” the mechanical voice of the machine urges.

We ignore it and wait.

“Choose your photo,” the mechanical voice of the machine insists again.

We ignore it and don’t touch anything.

But the machine impatiently whirrs into action and prints out four identical useless photographs.

The woman comes back. You can have a refund she says and takes us back to the lady behind the desk in customer services.

There is a form to fill in and sign. It takes an age.

She gives me back a five pound note.

I look at it.

“But we need coins,” I say. I’m all ready prepared to do battle with the photo booth once again.

“Oh no,” she says. “You’re not allowed to use it. Others have reported the same problem today. I’m going to have to put an ‘Out of Order’ sign.”

I’m bewildered and inwardly annoyed as I take the five pound note. I’m left wondering why she didn’t warn us about the problem. I’m puzzled why she didn’t say make your first photo your best one. I’m fed up that so many people had to go through all that before she was at last prepared to put up a sign?

I ask if I can keep the useless photos. They are sweet and I like them.

“No,” she says. She snatches them away, and I’m sad to think of them ending up in a bin somewhere.

So we leave.

But we did return home with a cucumber!