roadhouse blues

Driving home down the highway early this morning, F and I. Not having got the thermos/picnic together, we pulled into one of those ubiquitous, identical BP places. Why had I forgotten what a very bad mood I always get into the moment I step inside? 

To begin with there is never anything there that I want to eat. Nothing but mass-produced overpackaged overpriced impersonal crapola junk food, mumble grumble grump. 

I manage to stay calm while F happily hoes into his ( horribly unethical, I’m sure, battery-raised, don’t think about it) eggs and bacon. It was an extra two dollars for scrambled not fried, then the poor cashier (name badge Kelly, greasy orange shirt, anxious face)  couldn’t work out what code to put into the computer for scrambled, had to call the supervisor. When did simple become so complicated?

I buy a coffee. This annoys me: you used to get a real cup, but now its all takeaway throw away, and there are three sizes, with what used to be normal now called ‘small’. With a plastic lid jammed on top wrecking all the chocolate-y froth on my cappuccino. Because its health regulations. And an icypole stick instead of a spoon. 

etcetera.

But the thing that really tips me over, as we emerge from the toilets before getting back into the car is a whole big wall display mural  telling us how much BP cares about the environment, exhorting us to save water like they do, boasting about all their terrific recycling and reducing (‘where possible’). I think I’d also noticed a display about (how the global oil company is protecting) the Great Barrier Reef...

God it’s just so bloody hypocritical I blurt. Shhh, says F, glancing anxiously around, Wait till we’re outside Mum. 

From now on I’m gonna make sure I’ve got the thermos. 

not a roadhouse, a shopping centre, same thing...