They have showers here now, I think, distracting myself. Showers! I could have a shower! I could eat my Pringles in the shower, then dry off in the toilets under one of those loud air machines!

But I am only an hour from home, and it is probably a little gauche to have a shower in a service station. I mean, what am I? The Queen?

The lights and logos continue to beckon, and I follow them, in search of the magic they promise, and before too many more moments are up, I am standing by the stained chairs in the centre of the station. A chill wind whistles through the broken automatic doors, ruffling the collars of my fellow travellers, who sit, blank-eyed and coats-on, shovelling limp fries and damp onion rings past their strip-light-yellow lips.

The magic has gone.

I stand in a depressed, heads-down queue and look at the floor. It has seen better days. When you are saying a floor has seen better days, you're in trouble. But I must persevere, because I am hungry, and this is food, and some people in Africa don't even have service stations.

The man next to me seems as affected as I am by this. He turns and gives me a half-smile, and I half-smile back, and think about how sad it is that we have to split a smile. He orders his bacon double cheeseburger meal and stands to one side. I order mine, and immediately feel embarrassed because he must think I'm copying him, especially as I've even ordered Fanta just like him, and so I stand a short distance away and pretend I'm the only person in the world who's ever ordered a Fanta at a service station.

Our meals arrive simultaneously, and I can tell we are both weighing up the options. Do we eat here, with the Others, or do we eat in our cars?

I decide instantly to eat in my car, but it seems he has too, because we both start to walk for the doors. There is an awkward moment when we are both striding at exactly the same speed, side-by-side, Fantas in hand, and so I slow down, and pretend to find a leaflet about the RAC absolutely fascinating.