March 2020, when Scotland succumbed to Coronavirus. The streets an empty vessel of what they once were. Absent were the buskers who serenaded the passing crowds. Absent the workaholics fuelled by the take-out coffees in their hands. Instead, a disquiet hush took their place, infusing the air with an eerie sense of anguish. Life had come to a halt.
Once a week, however, our hollow streets were reinvigorated. We took to our front doors, balconies, and windows, united once again, to fill the air with a chorus of applause to show our essential retail workers an ovation of gratitude. For 30 seconds a week, we appreciated workers who braved the frontlines of the pandemic, who, with unwavering commitment and dedication, put themselves at risk so we could have our essential needs served while overstocking on toilet rolls. We finally realised what these workers were – our lifelines.
Only three years later, this appreciation is just a distant memory, with the applause that once rang through the country like a rallying cry now leaving mere echoes of condescension. The once heroes, guardians of our daily needs, went from being in the long-awaited spotlight to being cast into the shadow of societal neglect.
“I’m struggling more now than ever,” Suzanne Morris, a customer assistant at Sainsbury’s tells me. “During the pandemic, the government told us we were some of the most important people in the country and that they would do everything to support us, but I’ve not seen any substance to what they said. Most of us are barely above minimum wage, are having our hours cut, and are struggling to break even with this cost-of-living crisis.”
Morris, 43, has dedicated two decades to the retail sector, working for various companies and locations around Scotland. While working in retail she has seen off six Prime Ministers, three wars, and countless killer clowns, yet she chose COVID as the most memorable timestamp of her career: “It really felt like the first time that everyone appreciated what we do. Obviously before that we weren’t despised, but, for the first time, I could tell people what I did without any embarrassment. People called me a ‘hero’ – I’ve never been that before.”
Despite Morris and her colleagues tirelessly supporting their community, the government has not once reciprocated their endeavours. “Whenever we ask for help it’s rejected; that isn’t how I’d treat someone I called the ‘backbone of our country’,” she said. “I feel we were used so the government could look good at a bad time.”
Her thoughts are echoed by Lisa Willis, a representative of USDAW, the Union of Shop, Distributive and Allied Workers: “What we’re seeing is a complete 180° from the government. Throughout the pandemic, shop workers were, rightly, propped up for the first time. The government promised to make workers’ lives easier. But not too long after the pandemic, they were dropped.” The resonance of passion in her voice is undeniable.
For Willis, this is personal: once a retail worker for 15 years, she has seen the obstacles the government and businesses place in front of workers. This has fuelled her unfeigned desire to champion a better workplace where these obstacles become a relic of the past. “We have been trying to make changes, such as banning zero-hour contracts, increasing the minimum wage, and introducing minimum-hour contracts – policies that would greatly help shop workers – but the government aren’t cooperating. We can’t push change if we’re being ignored at every opportunity.”
Paul Turner, a customer assistant at Tesco Express, sat down to speak after he finished his shift. In his own words, he looks “exhausted and a mess”. Still in his azure uniform and unable to find the time to change due to ‘complications’ with his schedule, he stands out in the subdued, dimly lit coffee shop where he downs two espressos to revive himself after his shift. In the last nine hours, he faced verbal assault, death threats, and unwanted sexual advances, but to Paul, it was simply another Thursday. When asked to describe his shift, he laughed: “I was doing the work of three people while drunks were threatening to bash my head in. So pretty entertaining.”
Despite the Retail Workers Protection Act which makes verbal or physical assault a criminal offence, these incidents are a daily occurrence at many shops. Security guards are deployed in areas with the most instore incidents, however, Willis, whose union worked with Daniel Johnson MSP in pressuring Holyrood to pass the act, believes this should be expanded: “What we’re seeing is security being supplied after workers have faced abuse. They shouldn’t be placed in as a bandage measure – they should be a precautionary measure in more shops. Workers shouldn’t have to be abused in order to get protection.” She added: “Managers are also not reporting these incidents enough, so the act isn’t having the effect we would have hoped.”
Ashley Baird, a floor manager at an independent retailer in Aberdeen, has had to remove abusive customers, stop potential thefts, and assume the role of a mediator during in-store brawls – tasks which have unfortunately become part of a routine in her position. “Most of the time, these customers are much bigger and stronger than me, so, when I deal with these incidents, I’m scared. They could easily take me on; all I can do each time is pray they don’t.” While detailing instances of abusive customers, she narrates them with the same nonchalant tone one would expect when recalling the most mundane events. For Baird, these encounters are so frequent that they seamlessly weave into the overstretched fabric of her work life.
If the fear for her safety was Baird’s only concern at work, she would be adrift in a symphony of joy. The abuse from customers is a probability, but the abuse from her management is certain. “We are told to trust no one” she explains. “Our bags are checked every time we come into work, and, when we leave, we have to take a photo of everything we do and send it to management. I have to convince myself they are on my side, because, with the way they treat us, it’s like they want to catch us out.” She goes on: “If you make a mistake, you’ll obviously get in trouble, but management takes it too far. They bring in personal attacks – people have cried and quit as a result, and I don’t blame them.”
Putting on a uniform and a name badge doesn’t strip away your humanity. You don’t suddenly become a soulless corporate robot or a punching bag for an entitled consumer. It doesn’t diminish your achievements or worth, yet this is the perception that many retail workers now have to contend with. “When I first meet people and tell them I work at Sainsbury’s, they often go to ‘that’s it?’ or ‘but you’re so smart!’ like they think I’m wasting my potential.” Morris laughs this off, but when asked how this has impacted her she responded: “It hurts. I love my job, I wouldn’t change it for the world. So, being told doing the job I love equates to me being dim and below them, it makes me question myself sometimes.”
Turner believes there is a culture of disdain for retail workers: “In one of my classes, someone asked the lecturer what would happen if they didn’t get a good enough grade, and his response was along the lines of ‘Aldi are hiring right now’. I understand he was making an attempt at a bad dad joke, but the way he said made it feel like retail is a ‘backup’ at best.” When asked if he felt this was a theme at university, he responded: “Yes. The whole culture at uni is basically to reach your potential so you don’t end up being a cleaner or a shop assistant. We are taught that this is the last possible resort – if you end up in retail, you’re a failure.”
Companies are fixed on developing and pushing ‘human’ self-checkouts, instead of having to pay an actual human. Gone are the genuine smiles and small talk we’ve all come to know. Replacing them? Monotone malfunctioning machines programmed to feign empathy that tell us to “Put the item in the bagging area” in a way that seems we’ve committed a heinous crime. “I was in an enemy camp [the Co-op] and I was at the self-scan, when all of a sudden there was a Scottish voice talking at me,” Turner tells me. “At first, I was buzzing – it was like me – and it was just such a laugh. But then I thought: why fake a Scot when you could just hire one?”
Self-checkouts are still subject to constant errors and glitches, so why are businesses so fixated on them? The answer: money. Machines cannot develop mechanical bags under their mechanical eyes or stage a rollout and demand higher pay. They cannot be overworked and don’t need a legally required 20-minute break.
Willis believes self-checkouts should be limited: “We cannot replace human interaction with a machine. While helpful, they cost people’s jobs and make customers’ lives harder. You’ll have customers whose questions cannot be answered or who can’t get assistance to pack bags.” She also worries the increase in self-checkouts will harm the workers who survive the machine takeover: “When you have multiple self-checkouts at supermarkets flashing red, people will get impatient, so, what you’re doing is putting the colleagues operating them at more risk of abuse. We need to bring back checkouts – bring back people – otherwise, the people we all clapped for will be out of a job and struggle to get by.”
November 2023, the streets now returned to their pre-pandemic glory, filled with buskers serenading crowds and workaholics queuing for coffees. While the streets are filled with life, the workers within them are barely holding on. In just three years, retail workers have gone from unsung heroes to souls in desperate need of salvation, yet, when they need help the most, they are ignored. It appears appreciating key workers was a mere trend – the pseudo-sympathy we had for workers, gone, the applause we gave fading into the echoes of the past.
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