Source A: Before the doors opened

An original contemporary non-fiction-style practice text, written for this question.

At six o’clock on Monday morning, the supermarket doors opened for staff, and I stepped into a place I thought I knew.

As a customer, I had always travelled in a straight line: fruit, bread, milk, till. Now the shop opened in front of me like a town whose streets had been rearranged overnight. The aisles ran away beneath bars of white light. Above them, signs promised simple destinations — BAKERY, HOUSEHOLD, PET FOOD — but between the signs stood towers of boxes, wire cages and half-unpacked trays.

Every shelf seemed to call for attention. Red labels announced reductions. Yellow labels offered larger packets. Tiny white labels contained numbers I was apparently expected to understand. Even the fruit looked complicated, divided into varieties, sizes and countries of origin.

My supervisor handed me a scanner and a list containing three ordinary things: tea bags, soap and batteries. Beside each item was a code. The codes led to aisle numbers, bays and shelves, as if I had been given directions in a language made almost entirely from letters and digits.

I began confidently. Aisle 8. Aisle 11. Aisle 8 again. The numbers appeared above me, disappeared behind displays and returned where I did not expect them. My trolley developed a squeaking wheel that announced every wrong turn.

Somewhere beyond the shelves, a machine began to hum. Then another answered it. A recorded voice tested the loudspeakers, a stack of baskets crashed to the floor and several scanners started beeping at once. Each sound was small, but together they filled the store until there seemed to be no quiet space left inside it.

I stopped beside the breakfast cereals. From a distance, the shelves had looked neat. Close up, hundreds of bright boxes pressed towards me, each one carrying a different picture, promise or instruction. I stared at them until I could no longer remember whether I was searching for tea or batteries.

I was lost.

Eventually, I found the tea bags behind a cardboard display of mugs. I placed them in the trolley with the satisfaction of an explorer planting a flag, although I had travelled less than fifty metres.

At eight o’clock, the main doors slid apart. Customers entered in a calm stream, collecting baskets and turning towards the aisles without hesitation. The supermarket absorbed them easily. I tightened my grip on the list and went in search of the soap.