Filling up at petrol stations is definitely one of those 'could be doing something better with my time' tasks. Quite why or how no one has invented a painless means of doing this that doesn't involve leaving the comfort of the road or one's own drive, beats me - owners of Smart vehicles and other electrically powered motors needn't make contact to discuss.
I know roughly how many miles to the gallon my car can manage, I know, too, from experience that it is probably best not to leave it until a garage can be spotted in the middle distance and then coast downhill, hoping that the impetus will be sufficient to power you to a neat stop beside the petrol pump, only to remember that the tank is on the other side of the vehicle and, no, there is no fuel left with which to manouevre the car. Feminists, I apologise, but there are times when it is simply best to look feeble and hope for help.
The average beep (now there's an advance in technology that I could do without), my car 'beeps' at the first opportunity, never failing to tell me that it is due a service - ever since the last one, apparently - that the windsceen wash needs filling, or, every few days, that it's time I filled up with diesel. The organised driver is, one assumes, aware of this possibility for some time beforehand and - and here's the difference between them and me - then does something about it! I press buttons to seek reassurance from the dashboard that there are a few more miles in the tank; I calculate, loosely, the proximity of known near garages and cross them off as I pass relevant turns; I'll do it this afternoon, on the way to town, after I collect from sports training; and isn't that garage a bit cheaper, perhaps when I'm passing tomorrow I could...
There are always queues, and always for the fuel pumps that are most conveniently suited the position of my petrol cap. Stupidly, I invariably believe the encouraging posters positioned to persuade me of the wisdom of choosing any pump, as all hoses will reach any side. Whilst I'm waiting for my turn, the driver of the car in front decides to complete their weekly shop in the 'convenience' store, perhaps wondering what to cook for each meal whilst they're in there. Ambling back to their vehicle, usually chatting to an acquaintance whom they haven't seen for months, they fumble with keys, and then begins the 'doors to manual' procedure. Why can't people simply fasten the seatbelt and drive off? Shopping has to be positioned carefully, the dogs and/or kids checked for oxygen supply, (they haven't expired whilst you're shopping, why would they now?), the mileometer adjusted, (get a life), rear-view mirror adjusted, (yes, I'm still here and will you please hurry up), lipstick - or fag - applied, replaced in handbag or on the floor, and yay, they're off.
The hose won't reach, not unless you hang on to it for dear life. I'm sure I resemble a cowboy hanging on for dear life to a steer lest it charges off; I'm only trying to pull the nozzle near enough to the car's fuel tank for it to stand some hope of making contact, but need to stand at an angle to make this possible. And then stare into space, or resolutely towards the paying booth, sideways at the rain beyond the canopy above, just not into the eyes of the driver behind who is already impatient with the middle-aged woman he sees in front of him.
Those protective canopies never quite reach all the way from the forecourt to the shop/paying station, ensuring that a run from the safety of cover inside is necessary. Ah, milk, knew I needed something. Wonder if they've got any cheese, could do with some bread whilst I'm here. The queue snakes slowly in front of me, rain drops slithering down the shopfront glass, blurring the shapes of cars waiting behind mine.
I'm hurrying, give a girl time. Throwing the shopping to the floor, I begin to pull out, but have to stop as another driver, too impatient to wait longer, decides that he will take the space in front of mine. In this way he will gain ten seconds of filling-up time over the person who is patiently waiting to take my place. Driving off gives the satisfying feeling of gratitude that the process needn't be repeated for four or five days; in the meantime there's one less beep and no image of a red petrol pump.
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