Dalesfolk: Pauline Peel

One of the highest stress points of modern living, say the psychologists, is waiting at the checkout till at the supermarket. This is a time, say the experts, when blood pressures soar, heartbeats race and, from time to time, tempers boil over.

Know the feeling? Well I most certainly do, even though those lovely ladies (and the occasional fellow) sat in front of the till are probably under a lot more stress than you, the customer, and have to put up with it hour upon hour, day after day.

And it was on a particularly bad day when I first noticed checkout lady Pauline Peel. It was just before Christmas, I had been into Skipton to meet someone who did not turn up, and I was trying to buy a present for Mrs S which did not seem to be on sale anywhere.

On top of that, I had to pop into the Sunwin House food hall in Swadford Street to buy a couple of those items which we had inevitably forgotten the day before.

The place was, of course, jam-packed with people doing huge shops and I had, I think, a pot of mustard and some cranberry sauce in my sparse basket. It was, I suppose, a classic example of checkout fatigue.

And then I began to smile. The smile turned into a chortle. And by the time I walked out into a filthy rainstorm in Swadford Street, I was in a reet good mood - all thanks to Pauline.

Now Christmas is long gone - it took some time to fix up this interview - but I still smile as I sit here imagining her, wearing gold reindeer antlers, laughing and joking with her customers, and asking how so-and-so's cold was and when who's-its baby was due.

When it came to my turn, she gave me a flashing grin and asked: "Do you like my ta-ra-ra?"

Now such antics, in my fragile temper state, could have led to an explosion. But I had observed that all this chatter, the smiles and the words of comfort, had not slowed down Pauline's work: her hands flashed goods over the electronic counter like a sewing machine in full flow.

In other words, I was getting served fast and efficiently - and being entertained into the bargain. And that's what makes Pauline Peel a worthy subject for this column: an ordinary lady doing an ordinary job extraordinarily well.

She was born in Leeds 51 years ago and moved to Embsay when she married haulage contractor Alan. They have two daughters and a grandson, and now live in Long Meadow, Skipton.

Sixteen years ago, like many housewives whose children are growing up, she got bored and looked round for a part-time job. She became a Co-op checkout lady for 15 hours a week - and has been there ever since.

"I just love it," she says. "I know most of the regular customers well and we chat about family matters and the like. When we get strangers in - people who come off the canal narrow boats in summer or who have taken holiday cottages - I try to be friendly with them too.

"The trick is to be friendly and fast at the same time: keeping people in the queue waiting while you gossip is not a good idea. But it seems to work because the people off the boats become regular customers - and that's good for the store. With a bit of luck, it also makes their holiday a little more enjoyable."

Nice thought. Nice, too, that when Pauline is not working, she has a list of regular visits she makes to friends and relatives, chatting with their children, doing a bit of shopping if they are sick.

Trouble is, you can't please all the people all the time. As we reported in these columns a couple of months ago, a lady had written letter of complaint to the Co-op because one of the checkout ladies had had the temerity to call her "sweetheart."

Now I cannot confirm that the "culprit" for this grave offence was Pauline Peel - "I don't think I should talk about that," she said in the firm but polite tones good retail workers use when handling awkward customers.

But she had called me "Sweetheart" when she dealt with my humble purchases that bleak and bitter day. And she made me smile. What more can you ask when checkout stress threatens?