THE computer and all its progeny are not providing the relief that we deluded ourselves would follow technology's arrival in every office, shop and home.

I'd love to know how many hours are consumed pushing multiple choice buttons on automated "help" lines, so called because of the pitiful cries heard emanating from sufferers from enraged hot ear syndrome.

I am doubly tortured, as I can still cherish that distant image of the bank manager and the grocer (remember them?) who knew you and would never dream of uttering those words that I am convinced will one day result in a judge acquitting a murderer.

"M'lud the deceased shopkeeper told the accused that he not only did not have butter beans but that he would not in the future be able to offer butter beans as (pause for effect while staring meaningfully at the jury) there was 'no demand for them'.

"Case dismissed!"

I know all that boring stuff about prices only being kept low because of economies of scale. But I remember Mr Sheard. He'd lick his pencil, write a note on the back of a brown paper bag and say: "I'll get them in for you. Friday all right?"

Just before Christmas, I was on a mission to buy a specific large cuddly toy that Santa had failed to supply last Christmas. Anticipating his failure this year, I decided to find it myself. I sourced one at Toys 'R' Us, 50 miles or so away.

Two hours later I plucked the 3ft red plush object off the shelf and presented myself at the checkout.

Big Red did not have a bar code. I knew the price. I had been told on the phone and seen it on the shelf. The checkout boy needed the bar code or product number.

He sent another young man to the shelf for the number to key in. He returned. He confirmed the price, but there was no number. The till would only accept a bar code or a number.

The second young man disappeared with Big Red to consult a computer. Minutes ticked by and my cashier sat passively, avoiding my gaze and feigning not to notice my increasing agitation.

The growing queue behind me started to get restless and glared at me balefully or sympathetically, according to their quotient of Christmas spirit.

When I asked him to find out what was going on, he told me that he wasn't allowed to leave his till. I went in search, found Red on a counter beside another young man who was consulting a computer for another customer who was at the head of another large queue. Of Boy Two there was no sign. Boy Three was unable to help.

I returned to Boy One and a queue that was bonding nicely. I requested an urgent summoning of the manager. He was tannoyed.

He was tannoyed in all four times, each at my insistence as Boy one practised his Zen customer avoidance techniques and my queue exchanged addresses and paired off.

Forty-five minutes (and I swear I am not exaggerating) after I had arrived at the checkout, the manager strolled up, leaned across the Young Man keyed in the price that we all knew belonged to Big Red and pressed a few keys.

I told him how "Cross M' I" with Toys R' Us. He apologised somewhat less grovellingly than I would have liked.

I was then late for my matinee.

January 24, 2003 11:00