Confession one: I’m not just any shoplifter...

Say what you like, but I’m a very discerning shoplifter, and – hear me out – I’d even argue that I take a fair and moral approach to my pilfering.

Last week Marks & Spencer chairman Archie Norman declared that the introduction of self-service checkouts had fuelled a rise in shoplifting at its stores among ‘good, honest people’. He’s absolutely right.

He went on to explain the stealing by saying that these tills ‘break the human link’ between customer and retailer, and that if an item doesn’t scan and no staff member is around, the shopper might think: ‘It’s not my fault and I don’t have much time, so if I can’t get my strawberries through, I’ll just put them in my basket.’

Hmm, it’s here that I think Mr Norman is being a tad naive.

Yes, I’ve certainly become frustrated in supermarkets that an item won’t scan and have just bagged and taken it home anyway, but that’s massively outweighed by the stuff I deliberately pinch.

Shoplifting is against the law, I know that. But then so is going 24mph in a 20mph zone and I do that far more often.

I realise, too, that shoplifting has become an epidemic. But I set myself apart from the people who make a career out of it. I have my own shoplifting code of conduct.

It’s mostly food items that I steal, they are always low value (under a fiver) and only ever taken if the rest of the contents of my basket come to more than £25.

To give you an example of my most recent shoplifting at a relatively high-end supermarket. Greek salad (£3.40) paid for, fresh raspberries (£3.90) paid for, lasagne ready meal (£10) paid for, rosé wine (£12.50) paid for, pack of chocolate biscuits (£3.25)… whoops, ‘forgot’ to scan.

When the supermarket would get more than £30 of my money for a few basics it doesn’t feel quite so wrong to sneak in a treat for free.

Other items I regularly pinch include sweets, birthday cards, bags of salad and crisps.

On one occasion I did take a pair of tights at more than £10 but I didn’t feel good about it and gave myself a stern talking to about sticking with my food and £5-or-less rule.

I’ve never been caught, and if I was I’m confident I’d be able to talk my way out of it. ‘Oh my goodness, didn’t the biscuits scan? I didn’t realise! I’m so embarrassed! Thank you for checking!’

I’ll admit that I do get a buzz when I do it, but that’s not the main reason.

I consider the small amount I steal to be a drop in the ocean once you factor in that I contribute thousands to various big supermarket coffers over the course of a year. I’ve been known to spend the best part of £2,000 at a relatively posh store over Christmas. Not long ago I held a little shindig to celebrate a big birthday and splashed £600 on food and booze. So, if I sneakily avoid paying for the odd snack, is it the end of the world?

When I was 13 my mum found a lipgloss I’d stolen from a boutique store in my bedroom and marched me down there to return it and confess to my crime.

I’ll never forget that burning shame, and yet I firmly believe my midlife stealing is completely different. I would never dream of stealing from a small independent shop now.

No, the big supermarkets can take it – and so will I.

Confession two: My taking a few bits here and there has become addictive

It all started with a packet of Haribos. There I was at the checkout of my local food hall. My basket was bulging full of delicious bits and pieces but the most treasured were the Haribos, which my children absolutely love.

In the past I would always have a lovely chat with the woman behind the till, but like most supermarkets those tills – and those people – have now disappeared. Instead it’s full of self‑service checkouts. Off I went with my basket ready to scan my barcodes. But the machine didn’t seem to be working properly. I scanned some apples and it charged me twice. Then I tried to scan the shopping bag and it didn’t want to register that at all.

I tried to remove one bag of apples and add one shopping bag, but the task seemed impossible – obviously I didn’t have the store code, or know how to take one thing off and add another thing.

A gentleman next to me who seemed to be having similar issues was swearing under his breath.

We looked around for a store assistant, but couldn’t find one and the lights weren’t flashing on the tills to alert them that we needed help.

So in the end I did the only thing I could think of: I paid for the groceries I had scanned (including double apples) and then – in a hurry, frustrated and fed up – I put the packet of Haribos in my shopping bag and walked out.

For a moment I was terrified. Even with two bags of apples, I’d stolen about £2.50 worth of produce. What if the alarm went off? What if I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder?

But of course nothing happened. I walked out, went down the street and, when I got home, we ate the yummy Haribos.

Can anything justify this? A recent study produced by Canadian academics found that shoppers now feel they’re performing unpaid labour when using self-service tills, and are effectively doing the job of a supermarket worker. Self-service checkouts, it says, leave customers feeling dissatisfied, frustrated and exploited.

I consider myself an honest and trustworthy person. I’ve never stolen anything (before). I’ve never taken the tag off any clothes, or walked out of restaurants ‘forgetting’ to pay, or not reminded the bar staff that actually I had three drinks rather than two.

Since the Haribos incident, though, I seem to have turned into one of those people who gets a bit ‘forgetful’ around their shopping. I’ve ended up walking out of quite a few supermarkets with extra bits in my carrier bags.

I get particularly cross at one store – an especially high-end one – because if you go anywhere near its self-checkouts, the machine gets very excited and scans your porridge oats 20 times in a row.

I’ve taken avocados, especially when they don’t have barcodes on them, because who’s got the time to constantly look things up on the ancient weighing system and type in ‘one avocado’? I’m quite partial to sneaking some fruit and vegetables into my bag.

Since the Haribos, I don’t think I’ve ever paid for pick and mix. Or I might start eating a baguette as I shop, and then won’t even try to put that through the self-scanner, since its weight on the other side of the till will be 50 per cent less than it should be and stop me checking out the rest of my shopping.

Kitchen towels have floated out of the shop without being scanned, ditto birthday candles, strawberries, mixed nuts and ice cream.

In all honesty it’s become a bit addictive. I tell myself it’s the supermarkets’ fault; they shouldn’t make it so difficult for us to buy their overpriced produce in the first place.

I do draw the line at pricier things. I was in a pharmacy the other day and genuinely forgot I hadn’t paid for a £15 blusher. Later I found it in my pocket and realised that I’d got away with it – but down that route lies proper criminality and I don’t want to think of myself like that.

The point is that when you consider yourself an honest person – which I am in every other part of my life – it’s almost as if shoplifting a few bits here and there doesn’t really matter. Until that hand lands on my shoulder, that is.

Confession three: I gave the guard my most imperious stare

It was a moment as light as a feather the first time I chose to shoplift, but it immediately tarred me as a criminal.

It was in a much less expensive supermarket than M&S, but Archie Norman’s point about difficult self-checkout machines could not have been more apposite.

After a long shop, I was already enraged by the bagging area’s inability to register the Bag For Life I’d brought from home when I scanned a feather-light packet of Thai basil and ‘£2.25 for 50g’ flashed up on the screen.

‘Please place item into bagging area.’

I did so.

‘Please place item into bagging area.’ I pressed the little bag of basil purposefully. No dice. No matter what I did, it was too light to register on the bagging scale.

I looked around for an assistant. There was only one person manning around 36 checkouts and he was surrounded by people as frustrated as I was.

‘Stuff this,’ I swore under my breath and left the basil where it was in my bag, while cancelling it from the ‘already scanned’ list. If the supermarket couldn’t be bothered to lay on enough staff to help with its malfunctioning machines, I couldn’t be bothered to play by the faceless corporation’s rules.

At least, that’s what I told myself when the shop alarm went off as I left and I gave the store guard my most imperious head girl stare. He meekly let me pass.

A few weeks later, I was stocking up in another supermarket, this one a middle-ranker in terms of price and a smaller, local outlet. The bagging areas of the checkout machines in these ‘corner shop’ stores are about the size of an iPad, so arranging your scanned items requires real Jenga skills, especially if you cook from scratch with fresh produce that doesn’t stack neatly.

I’m also the mother of a 23-year-old beer drinker, and there was definitely no room for the six-pack of Peroni on the scales. So I put them to one side while I wrestled with the fruit and veg.

Once home and unpacking, I mused that the bill hadn’t been as much as expected… and froze. I hadn’t scanned the Peronis.

Now I really was a shoplifter – and of multiple bottles of alcohol. I was no better than those gangs of south London youths, sweeping the shelves in shoplifting rampages. I was horrified, glued to the spot with guilt.

But I didn’t go back. I was too scared. Terrified that a big faceless supermarket wouldn’t believe it was just a mistake. Because what I haven’t told you is that I have form.

When I was just ten years old, on Christmas Eve 1978, I was shopping for my father’s Christmas present – a pair of hiking socks – in a local menswear shop and I was 50p short.

I agonised, then made a decision that would haunt me: I grabbed the socks and bundled them into the Dorothy Perkins bag that held my mother’s Christmas scarf.

When I shuffled towards the exit, a hand came down on my shoulder. ‘I think you’ve got something there you haven’t paid for,’ said an avuncular voice.

The store owner took me to the back of the store and made me wait outside the manager’s office while they called my home. After what seemed an age, he emerged and escorted me out of the shop, down the street and straight into the police station, where I was locked in a police cell.

Soon after, the peephole panel in the door slid back and I could see my father glaring at me. ‘No daughter of mine steals,’ he thundered, and the panel slammed shut again.

After a couple of cold and terrifying hours, I was released and taken home in a police car.

If you’re thinking this was unnaturally harsh treatment for a minor misdemeanour, you’d be right. I found out two decades later that my incarceration had all been at the instigation of my parents, not the authorities.

The scare tactics worked, though. I never did steal again, both terrified and haunted by my ordeal, sure that I was stigmatised for life by that moment of madness.

So why the Thai basil? All I can say in my defence is that it didn’t feel like shoplifting; more that I was driven to it by necessity. I could have left it behind, but it was crucial for that night’s supper.

I was reminded of this – and Peroni-gate – on a recent weekend in Hastings, Sussex.

In a lovely, independently owned shop, I was trying on some woven silk bracelets when my daughter rang. Distracted, I left the shop. When I got home and took off my coat, I was mortified to see five bangles still on my wrist.

I had defrauded that nice woman who had been too busy to notice me leaving with her merchandise. I felt awful.

The next day, I went back to the shop and confessed everything, insisting on paying for all the bracelets and reiterating how ashamed I was.

The shop owner was so amazed and grateful that she actually welled up.

‘I cannot believe you came back,’ she said, eyes brimming with tears. ‘I am blown away by your honesty. You could so easily have just kept them. I cannot tell you how grateful I am,’ and she gave me another one for free.

In an impersonal world of online purchasing and automated checkouts, it was a moment of deep personal connection.

I was still guilty of shoplifting the Thai basil and the Peronis, but those were crimes that seemingly had no victims.

Had I made up for those felonies by admitting to this one?

Reader, you be my judge and jury.