Yesterday I went to Macdonalds. I tend to go to Macdonalds only before going to the theatre, which is rare, maybe once every six months, and I am going to the theatre tomorrow night, so I don’t know what I’ll do then. I can’t go to Macdonalds again. Last night’s trip was a freak accident. I was out in town and weak with hunger, so I stepped into the Notting Hill Macdonalds for my usual: the Big Mac meal with orange juice as the drink (£4.99). These days you wait a lot longer in Macdonalds. It is no longer what you would call a fast food. First, you have to order your meal on one of their big screens, choosing, amongst other options, whether you want table service or are willing to waddle the three steps to pick the meal up from the counter yourself. It takes quite a time for your number to pop up on their screen as being in preparation. Then you wait for it to be ready to collect. Staff scuttling out from behind to produce table service is one reason why it takes longer these days. That, plus the queue of Just Eat and Deliveroo delivery persons coming in. When mine was eventually ready the fries were cold, so I sent them back. They gave us a tumbler of cold instead of hot water, so that had to be changed too. Yes, I am quite the patrician in Macdonalds. When I got to the table I was too irritated to pretend to trick myself into enjoying the food. It ended up tasting just like it tastes at the end of the meal when I have understood what I am eating. i.e. not nice. Nor did it satisfy me, though at least it gave me strength to go into the next-door Tesco to buy more terrible food for later that night.