When it comes to grocery shopping, a good game’s a fast game – and the self-servers win it.

 I use those self-service checkouts at the supermarket. I like them. I like the people who use them too. I suspect we are a type. It’s not just about speed or convenience; it’s little things that everyone feels, but few admit. For a start, I avoid the dopey kid who looks at herbs like they’ve only recently come into the country. Honestly, there’s only about 10 of them – it’s not like I’ve been foraging. Would it kill you to study two types of parsley so I don’t get held up by a price check?

 Or the pause as I watch the newbie try to remember what the supervisor said about packing boxes and bottles. It’s not Tetris. And no, milk doesn’t go on top of bread. They’re trying to do the right thing and everyone has to learn, but that pause as they try to remember which apple code to enter does my head in. And EVERYONE hates to pick up the slow line. It’s pathetic, I know, but watching someone who arrived at the next check-out after you grab their shopper docket and go while you’re still staring at a stationary conveyor belt that remains full of someone else’s groceries...well, that’s just unbearable.

 We all have our tricks; we all have our shopper version of racial profiling. If you’ve never seen Up in the Air, it’s worth watching for one scene alone. George Clooney’s character does so much flying, he has security-check queue picking down to a science. In part, he avoids queuing behind old people (“Their bodies are littered with hidden metal and they never seem to appreciate how little time they have left”) and always tries to get behind Asian businessmen (“They pack light, travel efficiently and they have a thing for slip-on shoes”).

 But now, in supermarkets, we have a choice, and it’s separating people who hate slow queues from people who hate them with a passion and would train in a simulator if it helped avoid them. By picking the self-serve check-out, you can avoid the most painful queue of all: the short queue/slow payers. The most common type of slow payer is the lady who waits until the check-out chick states the price and only then gets out her purse. And after slowly extracting the right notes and the gold coins, she really aims for precision: “Now what have I given you...60...70...I do have a ten-cent piece here.” Yes, I’m sure you do Mrs Smith, it’s buried under the shillings, pence and war rations. Come on, get with the times lady. Hand over a note and let the girl with that huge cash register FULL OF CHANGE get you out of my way, quick sticks!

 The staff at my local supermarket are actually particularly polite and very friendly. But as you can tell from my above-mentioned mood, in ‘shopper mode’ I can live without polite and friendly. I’m happy not talking when I shop. I talk a lot during the day. By 6pm on a Thursday night I’m done with chit chat. The self-serve machine might “talk” to me, but only in that comforting recorded kind of way. The voice you associate with accurate GPS directions. The voice that cuts to the chase if you can press the buttons fast enough. As a self-server I sound grumpy, but grocery shopping’s not high on my “good times” list. So a fast game’s a good game, OK? And I have a queue of people who are just like me. And that queue’s fast.

My personal rules for a successful self-diagnosis using all the tools the internet has to offer.

 Sorry if you shouted “HI!” to me on the street the other day while you were getting what looked like a yoga mat out of the back seat of your car and I didn’t immediately respond, and when I did it was only half-heartedly. I didn’t mean to be rude, but that afternoon I was recovering from GORD. You could probably tell – I mean, heck, we’re all familiar with the tell-tale signs of GORD, but in case you didn’t pick up on my ailment, that’s what was wrong with me.

 To slightly complicate the matter I also had pancreatitis, a hernia, endometriosis, and kidney stones. On top of that, I had an ulcer (or possibly several, it was hard to tell in all the confusion), lactose intolerance, appendicitis, pelvic inflammatory disease and one of the more full-on cases of menstrual cramps I’ve ever had.

 How did I have all of these things? Because I had a sore tummy, and when I went online to diagnose myself, these are the things the internet told me were wrong with me. I don’t think I’m overreacting because the website had pictures of doctors on it. I don’t know if you’ve ever decided to diagnose yourself online, but if you’re ever feeling like your day is going too well and you could do with some extreme pessimism/borderline doomsday hysteria in your life, these are the websites for you.

 We live in an incredible age of medical technology where robots are able to perform microscopic surgery our clumsy stupid giant hands could never do, nanotechnology is able to scour our veins and scrape out nasties with the ease of a five year old picking his nose, and computer programs are able to hold more medical data on them than even my dad can pretend to know. However, none of that technology seems to have made it to self-diagnosis sites on the net, which basically consist of the following algorithm:

1.     Do you hurt anywhere, inside or outside your body? If yes go to 2. If no, go to 3.

2.    You will definitely die tonight.

3.    Go to 2 anyway.

 What may have seemed 98 percent like a scab with a bit of dirt in it when you jumped online 20 minutes ago is now almost for sure the start of the first of many sores you will develop as the bubonic plague takes over your body, gradually liquefying your organs as you implode into a horrific death. But at least you looked it up and have peace of mind now right?

 I’m sure if you asked Google what the most searched-for terms were from people who had recently been on a medical-diagnosis site, it would be “low-cost funerals that still look classy” and “if I’ve had my neighbour’s drill for three years and I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten I have it, can I leave it to my kids?”

 Oh, and the worst thing you can do is read the message boards! No one ever writes, “Thought it was Crohn’s disease, but just had gas. Ha ha. Silly me. Went to bed, next day found fifty bucks, good times.” All the stories basically follow the narrative of, “so after experiencing exactly the same pain you have at this instant, I decided to go to hospital even though I thought it was an overreaction. After I awoke from surgery the doctor said my colon was one second from exploding, and the pain I was feeling is known as The Certain Death Pangs, because everyone dies from it and it also pangs. May I remind you, it’s the exact pain you’re feeling right now that has brought you to this page. But it’s up to you if you want to go to hospital. See ya.”

 I can’t tell you what I found out was actually wrong with me, due to medical privacy reasons, but I will tell you that I plan on launching a website soon named dontdrinkyoursmoothietoofastyouidiot.com.au to advice people against doing what I did. And then tell them they’re going to die, just so my website doesn’t feel left out.

How much for one pair of socks? Five dollars, but if you spend $10 you get three pairs.

 “You can get three pairs for $10.” “Sure, but I only need one pair please. So how much for one?” “Five dollars, but if you spend $10 you get three pairs.” “Then the pair of socks costs me $10.” “But you get THREE!” At this point the conversation started to resemble something from an Abbott and Costello movie. “But I only want one!” “But you can get three.” And on it went…..
 Thank heavens I had a bus to catch and a $5 bill in my hand. I’m susceptible to a bit of up-selling at the best of times, but having a spare 20 minutes before I have to go home makes me a sitting duck. Up-selling, cross-selling, whatever they call it, is gradually losing its charm. You walk into a petrol station to pay for your petrol and walk out with a receipt and three Mars bars. You enter a hardware superstore chasing a small tine of paint, then exit juggling a jumbo pack of AA batteries, two cans of WD-40, and a garden lantern. I feel as if we’re being trained by a new class of evildoers.
 I understand the old school. Every optometrist graduated from that institution. A basic fee for assessment before you get to choose your polarised ($30) non-scratching ($20) titanium ($50) spare pair of frames always ends with “And would you like one of those modern and totally essential retinal scan-type premium packages with the glasses?” ($150). It’s not hard to see those ones coming, but it’s the new generation of up/down-sells I fear. Like the socks. Dropping the price but somehow making us spend more. That $30 DVD player seemed like a bargain until I bought an extra year’s warranty.
 And who’s the supermarket genius who invented the yellow specials tag? That’s the little discount slip that acts like a hare to a greyhound. What?! I can get 17 cents a unit off tasty cheese? Of course I’ll buy two for $5! And just next door is a yellow sticker with ‘Any 3 for $6’. Who cares if I don’t need English Lite Ham? Try telling my brain that. “Can’t you see the yellow discount sticker?” Low-fat toasted ham sandwiches can be served for dinner and breakfast for a week……can’t they?
 I’ll continue my own private resistance against the up-sell, but I admit it’s getting harder. I may even give in to the ‘buy two, get one free’ ink cartridge offer in the Officeworks catalogue. I do need at least one of those ink cartridges. And I do need at least four AAA batteries. A trip there wouldn’t hurt. At least they don’t sell socks.

Can we leave the grooming to the individual please?

  Like most people, I always try to look my best and often rely on others to tell me if I have a blob of mascara on my cheek or if an outfit makes my butt look big. But sometimes, this assistance crosses a line and what should merely be a suggestion becomes a hands-on invasion of personal space.
  A while back I became the victim of what I call “unwelcome grooming”. There I was standing in front of a mirror in a clothes store, trying on a pair of jeans, when a stranger walked up to me and pointed out that I had some stray hairs swaying above my head as though I’d stuck a fork in an electrical socket. “Darling,” she said “I’ve wanted to do this since you walked into the shop.” And with that, she licked the tips of her fingers and smoothed the offending hairs with her damp, sticky mitt.
  Yes, that’s right, a woman I’d never met before decided that, rather than suffer the embarrassment of a few stray split ends, I’d prefer her saliva smeared all over my head. To some, this might not be confronting but, as someone who has a borderline phobia of other people’s bodily fluids, it made me want to dip my head in a bath. In my defence, the average mouth carries more bacteria than a toilet seat.
  Her unwelcome grooming took me back to being five and having mum attack my chocolate-smeared face with a tissue she’d first saturated with spit. It’s bad enough to wake from a nap with your own drool on your face, but having someone else’s drool on my face sends my gross barometer soaring.
  Unfortunately, unwelcome grooming isn’t limited to hand-lickers. Look out for groomers who presume you don’t like your jeans low-slung and promptly pull them up on your behalf. This should only be permitted if the offender is showing an extreme degree of bum cleavage.
  Then there are those who insist on picking things off your face. A friend once leant in to pluck a fallen eyelash off my cheek, which turned out to be a long facial hair that was still attached to its follicle. Another pal doesn’t just point out something lodged in my teeth, she insists on scraping it out herself.
  It’s time for victims of unwelcome grooming to unite and stand up to this daring invasion of personal space. Once and for all, we say no to wet tissues on our cheeks and alien fingers plucking hairs from our faces and poppy seeds from between our teeth. Let’s all agree personal grooming is best left to the individual. If you ever find yourself compelled to lick your hand and wipe it on someone’s hair, for goodness sake, reach for a can of hair spray instead.