Extract from the novel “Here am I Sitting in a Tin Can”
On the outskirts of Lancaster I call to get petrol.
“How much does it cost to pump up my tyres?” I ask the bored young girl at the till, as I pay for the fuel.
“It’s gone up to fifty p minimum,” she says, unsmilingly through the screen.
“Due to inflation I suppose?” I say, hoping for some change.
“Search me,” she replies, without irony or humour. “It’s a separate company that operates the air machine.”
It’s one of those moments when it would be churlish and pointless to say it was just a joke. Or maybe, just maybe, she’s heard it ten times or more.