I THINK I speak for everyone when I say the supermarket is the fulcrum of our lives.

It's our shrine, club, hub. It's better than a pub. Deli-huggers would make us feel ashamed but, secretly, they use the supermarket too.

You wouldn't think Romans bad for heading down the forum — their mall — most days. It's natural to seek the hub, where business thrives and people mill hither and, arguably, yon.

So changes to supermarkets can be traumatic. Hence my tears at news they may do away with till-operators.

Tesco has launched a "super-till" in Lincoln that automatically scans your shopping before transferring it to a payment section. You bung your foodstuffs and costumery on to a conveyor belt where a scanner registers every item, even when positioned willy-nilly. The operation works three times faster than traditional checkouts.

A Tesco spokesman says it'll make shopping "more relaxed", without the "pressure" felt when there are customers behind you.

You know how that works. It's like driving: slow person in front; impatient person behind; you in the middle, getting the blame as usual.

I am, characteristically, torn by this super-till development. On the one hand, it sounds undeniably dandy. And I say that as one who eschews the self-checkouts that already exist.

Generally speaking, I'm ahead of the mob when it comes to technology — well, ahead of the very elderly — and I tried these early on but never got on with them: "Unauthorised beard in the packing area."

I must consider also that the only conversation I have most days is with a checkout operator. "Are you collecting the vouchers?" "Leave me alone."

They all have their different personalities and you choose your till accordingly. Generally avoided are the rude, the nose-blowers, the over-chatty, the one with the mad laugh, the bald ones obviously, the Hearts supporter, the one you think fancies you (but you don't fancy back), and the one you fancy (but doesn't fancy you back).

Generally preferred are bearded people your own age: someone you can trust. But the machines will not have beards nor even loopy chortles (good name for a breakfast cereal). They won't ask how your day has been or commend your choice of pudding.

These are troubling times. Efficiency could rob the supermarket of its soul. And that would be terrible for such a central place in our spiritual lives.