When we go into our local supermarket food stores during midweek mornings, here in west Ottawa, the only people under fifty-five years of age to be seen are perhaps a couple of the younger check-out cashiers. All the other denizens of the place, doddering about up and down the aisles, peering awkwardly down at the lower shelves and straining their necks upward to the upper ones, are on average aged about three score and ten and counting.
So why does the store management pipe relentless, unmelodic noise, combined with the screeching of demented insane lyrics by so-called vocalists, and meant for vacant-faced teenagers, at such heavy decibel levels.
Anyway, how often does one see a teenage shopper in a food store at any time?
But just in case a very young person might come into the store later on, couldn’t the store schedule the diabolical crass sound effects for late afternoon and evenings.
My wife often says she cannot stand the noise any more. So we cut short our shopping and go elsewhere for the time being.
Other co-shoppers vigorously agree with these complaints.
When store managers are tackled about the matter, they plead helplessness. Head office decides on the music, they say.
So some pimply-faced morons in a corporate office are responsible for driving you batty while you try to accomplish one of the few otherwise quite enjoyable activities of which you may still be fully capable.
Those dim-witted executives should be sentenced to life locked in a prison cell with loud speakers, 24/7, blaring George Formby playing on his ukulele, circa 1936, and singing:
When I’m cleaning windows.