Colonel Sanders, blue and white, smiles out of his red background. His drive-through queue is clogging the car park. The background hiss and rumble of the highway is punctuated by exhausts pulling away from Phevvy's Steak and Yiros, and occasional sexed up sound systems which die moments before the gunshot slamming of car doors. Hungry Jack spews black burger flavoured smoke into the darkness while the children shriek in the triple neoned light of his playground.
Insulated from it all by auto-glass and the half dark, I feel disconnected and unreal. All this hastening in for videos and food. My son thrusts a video through the window, and crosses the car parks to Chicken Knight. He will come back with hot chips. I am still sitting, too tired to think, but too tired to stop, when he comes back.
He watches me collapse the stylus with my index finger, and zip the pda cover. "I think if someone could get that thing away from you," he says, "you would stop breathing."
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