Pumped up Kicks

The Petrol or Service Station of today promises and invariably is able to give us everything. Under the brightly lit canopy and in the welcoming and enticing sales shop you could easily lose yourself.

It is as though the fuel we put into our vehicles is a loss leader and the true profit is in the consumables and fripperies in the aisles that we pass on our way to make payment at the till.

There is the long running humour centred on the forecourt goodies when the errant man, out all hours with his mates, fills up a basket with newly baked croissants, fresh fruits, cut flowers and chilled orange juice so as to get home at dawn just minutes before his Partner returns from a long and arduous night shift.

At the same time there is nothing more annoying than waiting for a petrol pump to become vacant only to find that the driver of the vehicle taking up the bay is doing their weekly shop at their own pace and with no consideration for others.

If I think about the roadside petrol stations that were visited when I was a young passenger in the family car they were altogether more amiable, personal and quaint in character.

In the 1960's and 1970's there were multiple stations in every place, from a small hamlet to the larger towns and cities.

They were usually part of a small business involving, in addition to typically just two pumps, a vehicle workshop and perhaps a selection of affordable motor cars for sale on the forecourt.

I can recall the thrill of hearing a distant bell tone as the car wheels bumped over a wire cable which alerted the proprietor, mechanic or a small child to the fact that a customer had pulled in off the highway.

This was well before automated and self operated pumps. In those days it was a case of Attended Service by the aforementioned personnel and staff. It was a matter of delight amongst us kids squashed together on the sweaty vinyl of the back seat to see who was on duty at any particular time.

My favourite was always the man in the grease and oil stained overalls who had just emerged, at the call of the bell, from under the bonnet or out of the inspection pit. Even though his concentration on the engine repair or service had been broken he was always smiling and pleased to help. We were a bit envious if the pump attendant was not much older than ourselves. That job had a real image of glamour and excitement even though, in reality, it must have been tedious and boring.

I had a real treat today which was a bit of a throwback, in the best definition of that word in a frantic search for a petrol filling station way out in the rural hinterland of East Yorkshire.

With just a 20 mile range of diesel indicated on the dashboard and about 25 miles left to my destination I discovered that a regular fuel stop was out of action pending a refurbishment. I think that someone had mentioned that to me recently but I had conveniently forgotten about it. I could not however believe that the situation had been allowed to arise especially as that petrol station was the only one now left in that town.

Its population, including a few thousand seasonal holidaymakers at this time of the year would really feel the inconvenience and even a bit of a pang of anxiety at the prospect of being stranded by the roadside with a fuel gauge showing just fumes.

For once the Empire of Tesco, with a superstore in the town did not have a petrol station on site.

I had a dilemma.

I could gamble by setting off on the next leg of my journey and with careful and economic driving hope to make the distance to where I knew there was a filling station.

I am naturally cautious but in a sudden show of bravado I took the coast road with a close eye on the trip computer where the miles to go had already exceeded the range in the tank.

Remembering my unadventurous character trait I made a quick U-Turn in a farm gateway and backtracked to a nearby village where the local shop had a diesel pump.

I had expected a bit of a queue given the strategic fuel supply shortcomings in that area but was able to pull up straight away.

Having flipped open the fuel cap I had to stand back with a tear in my eye.

The pump had a prominent label attached to it with those wonderful words;

"Do not operate - Attended Service".