Morrison's Cafe Trafford Road Salford

Picked up Danny  at 12.30 from work and off we went, by car because he only has an hour for his dinner, to our local Morrison’s for a bite to eat.  This shiny brand new Morrison’s opened its doors for business just a few months ago. We know the routine, we grab a tray and slide it down to the coffee machine. Danny selects a small bottle of milk from the fridge on the way. At the  payment point I make my announcement;  “beans on brown toast, cheese toastie and chips (no salad) and 2 toast please”. Straightforward? Not so. Pepper the following dialogue with "what was that again?" and "sorry, what?" and you've pretty much got the gist of what went on. 

• Beans. On brown toast. One portion of.
• Brown toast.
• Two pieces of brown toast separate.
• Beans on brown toast. (long pause)Two pieces of brown toast (longer pause) Cheese toasty and chips, no salad. (Massive pause) Look of bemusement on my face.
• One portion of beans on brown toast. Two other pieces of brown toast separate from the beans on toast, on a separate plate, one portion of cheese toastie and chips, without any salad. (my voice has gone up an octave)

 The woman tells me the till takes ages. She has just got used to it and they have changed it, apparently. 

She keeps me abreast of her actions. She is looking for the button to modify the toast. She needs someone to help her. Next she disappears round the corner hollering for someone to come to the till. A second later she returns and informs me she is new and that she used to work in schools. She’s happier just putting the food out but they’ve put her on the till, she adds. The crema on my coffee has gone. Eventually another girl pops her head out from the kitchen and tells her to void the whole lot.  Kitchen woman leans across the till, index finger poised, voids the whole order.  I sense, with some dread, that we have to start all over again.

As Danny is turning on his heels with our tray she calls him back because she can’t remember what we have got on it (one coffee, one small milk – remember?) She starts again with the order. She mistakenly tills in a cappuccino for my black coffee. I put her straight. Finally money changes hands and I shuffle back to our table and sit down with Danny and my daughter. I want to cry. I feel traumatised. I check our receipt. She has not put the order through for the cheese toastie. I drag my dishevelled self back to the woman at the till and re-order it. Our food arrives. My toast, for some reason only known to Morrison’s, is unbuttered. I can’t cope anymore. Danny takes it back.

After what feels like a fortnight, all our food is in front of us. The woman who brings out the second pile of toast apologises profusely and says she doesn’t know who the hell made that other toast.

As I am stuffing my toast into my hungry gob, the dilatory woman who took our order is making our way towards us. I can’t give her eye contact. She then appears next to us and makes a speech. Very humbly she says she got dead flustered as she is new and can’t operate the till. She apologises. Maybe twice. She says she doesn’t know why they put her on there. She’s dead nice about it all. I am under the table, in a heap, waving a white flag.

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