There’s a certain poetry to filling up with fuel at silly o’clock in the morning, often generated by the cold silence of a well-lit forecourt and unspoken agreement that the whole place is yours for a minute. Your car sits there patiently, perfectly unaware of how dramatically the lighting and slightly industrial surroundings enhance its appeal (-this goes for pretty much any vehicle, irrespective of ratings it might receive under normal circumstances-) and you can saunter leisurely to the counter (whilst maintaining eye contact with your vehicle through the very long pane of glass) and purchase its alarmingly expensive drink without needing to squint among the pump stations to confirm your number or feeling the need to rush back to vacate your spot for the impatient driver in the car behind.
The dazzling forecourt holds that mysterious early morning blackness which envelops it at bay, and you return to the car feeling mildly elated (enormously so if you managed to fill up to the pound), knowing it’s appetite has been satisfied and a fresh store of energy will shortly propel you into the day ahead ( – unless you drive a classic in which case the propelling part is all a little less certain). I think this feeling is sometimes called “main character syndrome”, and for that, as far as I’m aware, there is no cure. Who needs one anyway.