We popped into McDonald’s, mainly because they offer free wifi. We felt we should order something but couldn’t bring ourselves to get any food, so I ordered two coffees. It was proudly displayed on the board that coffee was one dollar for any size of cup. Sounded reasonable so, two coffees it was.

The 14 year old behind the counter looked at me, asked if I wanted cream or not to which I replied that milk would be fine – he said something to the effect of not having milk but cream was milk and then mumbled in juvenile-speak and asked me for one dollar twenty eight and lolloped off to fill something. I presumed he must have misheard my order and would return with a cup of something that wasn’t coffee as even with my dodgy maths I could figure that two lots of one dollar is a relatively straightforward calculation.
He returned with two cups that actually looked and smelt of coffee and placed my change and a receipt in front of me. On the receipt it said two snr coffees. We’re not a million miles from Mexico: there is a lot of Spanish speaking going on round about here and so I initially thought the snr meant señor, though why it mattered if you were male or female to order coffee escaped me. But the amount was clearly wrong.

Excuse me, I thought the coffees were a dollar each.

Yes sir, that is correct.

But you only charged me one dollar twenty eight.

That is correct sir.

That’s less than two dollars.

It is indeed sir. Would you like anything else?

No, just the two coffees really.

Very good sir. Have a good one.

Thank you. You too. But why are the coffees cheap today?

They’re not sir, they’re always a dollar.

I’m confused.

Did you want a larger cup? They are the same price.

No. I just wondered why you charged me less than 2 dollars.

Oh, I gave you a senior discount.

A what?

(Looks a little apprehensive and starts speaking as one might when faced,with a grizzly bear) A senior discount, sir.

When do you get those?

When you order, sir.

But how old do you have to be to get a senior discount? How old do you think I am?

Umm, over 50, sir. The manager doesn’t like us to ask so we just guess and if someone looks over 50 we give them a discount. (He looked awkward and stared over my shoulder to the next person in line hoping I would go quietly.)

I went quietly, hoping my joints didn’t creak too loudly and walked slowly off to join Ella at the booth, trying not to shuffle as I went. Happy to get cheap coffee of course, and pretty good coffee at that, but confused (it comes with old age I guess) that the 12 year old server had thought I was over 50.

Nobody thinks I look 50. I don’t look anything like 50. Admittedly I will be 50 in December but nobody thinks I look fifty.

OK, one person obviously does.

And where there’s one there are bound to be others. This sort of thing spreads like nasty disease.

50!

That’s what happens when you employ 10 year olds.

And what am I doing having coffee after 6 pm? I’ll never sleep.

So, that’s it. I officially look over 50 even though I’m not. I don’t want to return to McDonalds, ever – but they have free wifi and cheap (even cheaper, now) coffees and we’re sleeping in our car.

I’m an old, homeless, jobless person living in a car and existing on McDonald’s coffees, hmmm, I think it’s time we booked into a hotel. So I turned to Ella, (who looked to be suffering early signs of claustrophobia – the car roof is only 18 inches above us as we lie on the inflatable mattress) and say the words everyone woman is waiting to hear:

“Let’s go to Vegas, baby!”