I'm not a massive customer. I can never decide what to have. I stand there, several feet away from the counter, gazing up at the illuminated board of shiny burgers, while an orange-shirted, baseball-capped teenager drums her fingers on the till.
"Can I help you?" she says in a way that's somewhere between friendly and slightly menacing. I remind myself that she's probably been trained to perfect that particular tone and timing - and I smile politely.
I used to have a technique for this situation. I'd stay cucumber-cool as I scanned the menu for a second, then I'd simply approach the till and order a "quarter-pounder-with-cheese-meal-with-an-orange-juice"... every time. I vaguely like a quarter-pounder-with-cheese-meal-with-an-orange-juice and it was simple to remember. Plus the quarter-pounder-with-cheese-meal-with-an-orange-juice is significantly easier to eat than a BigMac.
Oh. Who in the world doesn't get furious... when the thing you're trying to eat falls apart at the exact moment you pick it up? A BigMac is sticky-fingers and a box full of salad. It's a disgrace. At least with a quarter-pounder-with-cheese-meal-with-an-orange-juice you can handle the thing without it disintegrating.
Anyway, I'm digressing. I'm also painting the picture that I go to McDonald's a lot more than I'm letting on - and I really don't. These are experiences over a long period of time: from GCSE revision to uni-breakfasts to youthwork meetings. Tonight, I needed a quick cup of tea and the golden arches are on my way home.
They were playing some really odd music in there.
It was quite empty; no screaming highchair-bound kids covered in the gloopy remains of a McFlurry, no teenagers flirting with each other or blowing straw-covers at pensioners. There was me, a tea swirling in a cardboard cup and a chocolate muffin - and nothing else to cover up the odd pounding of popular music.
I think it's kind of generic MaccyD pop that they pipe into these places. When you listen to some of the lyrics, you realise that they just doesn't make sense. It's no wonder teenagers are confused half the time. Some guy was warbling about giving his heart away and feeling something or other about it with a plan to journey to the centre of the earth while not knowing who his parents were, while the drums and bass were exploding behind him. Another seemed to be some kind of hip-hop rapping tramp, desperate for 'dollar' which he wanted either to 'share' or 'borrow' (it wasn't clear) without being specific about the terms of repayment. I didn't recognise any of it. I guess they don't play a lot of Classic FM in there.
After a while, I slipped my phone into my pocket and drained the dregs of the tea. Another orange-t-shirt was pushing a mop around the immaculate floor. I swiped the contents of the blue tray into the bin and swung my rucksack onto my back. The mop-lady smiled at me with envy as I carefully stepped past her and out through the doors into the cold. I found myself hoping that she goes home to a nice cup of earl grey and a bit of Mozart.
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