So there we are, driving west along the M25, heading for junction . . . 21 and the intersection with the M1, whereby we head for the ominously named place, 'The North'. Not just 'North' but 'The North'. As soon as we get to the M1, the plan is to head for the next service station, as M**** hasn't had any breakfast and, well, we were all a bit hungry by that point. This must have been an hour into the journey, when we came off the M1 . . . perhaps about 14:15.

And then . . . erm . . . yeah. So there's a Little Chef here, right next door to Burger King. And then, we also have a small (food and drink only) Marks and Spencers and - what's this? - Upper Crust. Lots of choice. And there's even a guy from the RAC, hanging around the entrance foyer, trying to sell car insurance, I guess. This guy probably ain't doing too well, though, as . . . well, there's me, probably still with the car keys in hand and he completely ignores me but, oh look, ahhhhh . . . pretty lay-deeeeez . . . "Excuse madam, can I interest you in . . . " but you got the wrong one . . . "No, I'm sorry, I don't drive," smile and walk on. Need food. So, anyway . . . we decide to go to Little Chef, M**** and I fancying some kind of burger. Anna pops into Marks and Spencers and gets some kind of wrap and comes back to our table. We order a coffee, a pot of tea and a glass of Diet Coke shortly after sitting down. No problems so far. Couple of minutes later, another lady takes our order.

"I'll have the . . . er . . . 'classic burger' please?"
"Sure."
"And, erm, does that come with chips?"
"Yes, they come with chips." (M****)
"Oh . . ," looking at the menu, "No, it says wedges, chips or . . . "
waitress mumbles . . .
"Yeah, I'll have the chips please. Can I have that with chips?"
waitress nods and scribbles something in her pad . . .
"And I'll have the 'Seventh Heaven Burger', please."
"Okay."
"Thank you."
"Thanks."

So . . . 14:20, and our food is ordered, so we wait . . . and wait . . . our drinks soon empty . . . someone finds a Daily Mail (there's a stack of 'em by the entrance). Flick through the vile sensationalism. "Yardies convert paint guns to use REAL BULLETS!" "Refugees sell their EYES AND KIDNEYS!" blah blah blah. Watch people leave who've waited (M**** says) fifteen minutes for food. Twenty minutes. Twenty-five minutes. Watch people complain. Watch miscellaneous serious health and safety violations being breached. Wonder about bringing in a secret camera to film teenage boy (wearing tracksuit bottoms, hooded top, trainers, carrying large cardboard box) walking through main customer seating area, through kitchen, around kitchen (all the time with box), and then out the back door. And wonder to yourselves, "Why so many staff and so little service?" as a large group of customers bring food production to a standstill, probably having waited so long for so little . . . and at so much expense. What am I paying? 6.99 for a burger? They complained (I'm assuming), some food arrived and the chef just kind of stopped . . . weird. Forty minutes passes. Start to feel slightly light headed. I stand up, put my coat on and . . . well, everyone else is in agreement - it's not worth waiting over forty minutes for two over-priced Little Chef burgers. So there I am, stood up, wearing my coat, looking around and this Little Chef employee comes up to me, meekly, with a plate of food, and asks, "Did someone order a cheese burger?" Poor guy. I felt sorry for him. There is a 'cheese burger' on the menu, but that's nothing we ordered. I can imagine someone getting very irate at this point. But I tell him, "No. Look, erm . . . can I just cancel the order? I'll just pay for the drinks and leave," and this guy just kind of says to the floor, "Okay," and slopes off. The girl who serves us at the till (who has no idea what our order was . . . the drinks we ordered) offers to fetch the manager, but none of us can be bothered with that. Pay and get the hell out of there.

Get some food from Marks and Spencer's, get distracted by this Cockney guy selling these hand-held PlayStation-style games controllers, that plug straight into a television, and have sixty-odd vintage arcade and home computer type games built into them . . . wow . . . and only twenty pounds . . . M**** drags me back to the car, just as I was getting into '1942' (I think it was called that)