The secret lives of petrol attendants

I live within a triangle of petrol stations (that’s gas stations to any Americans that happen upon this tale). Depending where I am driving to or driving form, I use all three to top up the fuel tank of the car and, occasionally, to top up my own personal fuel tank.

These are modern petrol stations, you understand. Sure, they sell petrol and diesel fuel, AdBlue to reduce emissions, brake fluid to ensure your car stops in time, and windscreen wash so you can see what you’re about to hit if you forgot the brake fluid. But they also sell sandwiches, confectionery, tea, coffee and a multitude of other life essentials. I often find myself in a queue behind someone doing their grocery shopping for an entire week.

And therein lies the core of my tale. The queue.

The three petrol stations I frequent are each owned by different companies; their grocery arms each operated by a different supermarket chain. Yet they have one thing in common. The constant queue. In fact, scratch that, they have TWO things in common: The queue; and its cause.

The outlet closest to my home has four checkouts plus another one that handles orders for coffee, pies, sausage rolls and other hot snacks. And yet, whether I visit first thing in the morning, the middle of the day, early evening, or late at night, all but one of those checkouts is unmanned. As a result, there are five, ten or even 20 people waiting to pay for their fuel, a sandwich or a bar of chocolate; shuffling from foot to foot with increasing impatience.

And this is not through a lack of staff. Rather, it is because of a lack of present staff. Staff that are at their station. Staff that are, you know, visible.

I don’t know what the trigger is: whether the front-of-house staff have been trained only to summon help when the queue exceeds 12 people; or if, perhaps, that process has been automated. But at some point, usually around the time I am thinking of foregoing that bar of chocolate, a door opens and out spills one, two or even four additional staff members. They emerge, blinking into the light, apparently confused and surprised to find themselves in a place of work.

But where were they before? What were they doing when, presumably, they were supposed to be on duty, front-of-house? Is there a pool table back there? Are they running an illicit poker game, away from prying eyes? Is it a book club or a knitting circle? Or are they all back there, laid back in reclining chairs, puffing on cigars and quaffing fine wines?

We may never know. I have thought about asking, but I am afraid. Afraid that what takes place behind that securely closed door is something far less interesting than I have imagined; or that it is something far more sinister.