A friend of mine was recently articulating what I've been ruing in silence all along - the fact that I always seem to be in a queue that moves the slowest. If there are three lines, two of them comprise hares while I'm with the snails. It's either the person at the checkout that's been infected with this lethal dose of lethargy, or the customers who are bent on setting a slow-shuffle Guinness record.
I've been in a queue that's come to a dead halt because the checkout has run out of plastic bags. Ping, ping rings the bored lady on her emergency bell, then leans back and waits, looking at everybody but seeing nobody. The shop floor assistant is nowhere to be seen, probably busy answering another 'ping, ping'.
Meanwhile, faces in the queue to the left and right flash by with express train speed while the slow train ponders its next move. One 'passenger' on this slow coach snorts in disgust, disembarks, crosses queues and is speedily swept up in the flow. Those of us still pinning our faith loyally on the snail are left to watch the said passenger weave her cart through and disappear victoriously.
You could see others considering a similar switch. It's not in the nature of people to take 'getting left behind' with a smile of resignation. They will do something about it.
I, on the other hand, have been cursed with doggedness and a strain of loyalty that finds me resolutely backing a losing horse to the bitter end, even though I try thinking 'out of the box' to get to the front.
Another passenger steps out and suddenly I find myself - in a queue that's still not moving - inching up the rank by two healthy places. A clever plan begins to worm its way into my thinking. Suddenly I can see a method of progressing even where progress is stagnant. So I strike up a grumbly conversation with the person in front, citing the two former 'defectors' and how wise they were to switch queues.
"Just look at them... rewarded for backing their luck. Gone. Over and out. And just look at us, still stuck here!"
After a few moments' worth of rumination the person takes the bait and pulls out as well.
"You're right, mate. Time to go."
Success. Move up one further spot, Machiavelli Martin. And so on. Two further successes and, suddenly, there's just one old lady in front of me, carrying a plastic bag full of coins. Evidently she intends paying with coins, not notes. After all the initial effort of psyching my way to the front, the excitement level takes a plunge.
I have on earlier occasions - from another queue, thankfully - witnessed little old pensioners upend a plastic bag of five cent coins on the counter and - leisurely - count their way through $50 while the queue behind meditated or contemplated Tai Chi. Suddenly, I feel trapped by my own cleverness. One of the passengers I had talked out of queue waves goodbye cheerfully to me from the speedier queue and walks off. The checkout girl is still zoned out, waiting, returning to reality now and again to press, 'ping, ping'.
Eventually the shop floor assistant appears, wearing her best flustered look. She looks at her watch - an ominous sign - then walks over to the speedy queue on the left and discharges the checkout person from there, for lunch.
The girl from my checkout queue - the slow one - gets promoted to the now vacant 'fast' counter.
"This middle queue is now closed," says the shop floor assistant, please join one of the two other queues. Unthinkingly - maybe because I'm left handed - I scamper to the left frantically, joining the end of the queue, which - believe it or not - in about five seconds flat grinds to a halt. I'm too far back to even know what the problem is. Sinister.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
