I should be arriving at McDonald’s this evening jaded, but triumphant.

Work was busy. But good. It has the components to be assembled as “good busy”. But because I have a mild aversion to the term, the Lego stays in the box. Good busy means you got a lot done and the only problems you didn’t solve were, fortunately, those you only care about when there’s a camera on you.
It’s the equivalent of a “me day” where your Uber rating was so low you had to walk to the spa and surprisingly enjoyed burning some calories.
I enjoy these days myself, but I don’t put a cheeseburger in a double cheeseburger tracing paper wrapper.

But instead, as the smashed glass automatic door slides open and an unsettling waft of unmelted burger cheese hits me… I’m buzzing!

I just did a pram!

5 minutes earlier

When the tube got to two stops from mine, part of me did think there might be a potential half marathon to run here. There was a woman with three kids, just two double doors away. Two were self sufficient and supported themselves on their hind legs, but the youngest was in an SUV.
Like any good philanthropist, I didn’t count the chickens I’d given away before the eggs I’d given away had hatched. Instead I just focused on enjoying my commute. Which I very much was, because this was the first day after my new iron had arrived. So I was wearing just a shirt on the tube, in what was most definitely light jacket weather. I was getting the admiring looks for my perfectly pressed non-iron shirt that I usually only get when I wear a polo shirt with trackies.
No zipped layer was NOT worth it on street level during the day, due to the 10m/s headwind and my paranoia that I’m going to get shat on for the third time this calendar year. Given the gale, it could come at me horizontally, rather than vertically, and point the gun of ingestion at me. I have no shame in admitting I’d hand over my phone.

When we arrive at zone 2/3, the animals leave the ark, as does the creaseless Noah.
Our carriage stops exactly by the exit stairs. No accident for this company man. For the gaggle, it’s as lucky as putting all your chips on red and finding a fiver in your pocket while you wait for the ball to settle. I forget where it lands.
I hold my run to let Babs reach the stairs before me.
Inspired by the spikes coming out of the wheels of the villain’s car in Grease, I sharpen my elbows in case I need to fend off any other sinners seeking redemption.

When I get within 2 metres of Bob Geldof, I clear my throat ready to tell him I’d duet with Freddie Mercury at his concert.
But before I can say anything… Peaches has already started reversing onto the naughty step, jacked up the front wheels, and is now smiling at me!
I thought I was googling charities incognito… not being spammed with a link to a JustGiving page of a colleague who doesn’t smile at me!
She hasn’t even begged me to tick gift aid with a fervour like the donation will be sent to fund war crimes if I don’t. Clearly doesn’t need the money.

But a pram’s a pram. If it’s got 4 wheels (1 dodgy) and stolen shopping in the compartment under the stooge, then I’m helping it gain altitude.

I reply with the closed lip smile with a subtle head nod and no eye contact which I’d perfected holding doors open for people who are cooler than me.

I grab the front axle firmly, but fairly.
We take off. Because I’m holding the front wheels and carrying most of the weight, I assume I’m Maverick. Very quickly I realise I’m Goose in this gaggle… Cruise pays zero attention to our own F-14 and is focused on the two infant MiGs buzzing around us, shooting them with missiles which somehow limit time on iPads. In doing so, she has, knowingly or unknowingly, cocked our craft at 45 degrees. So this kid, who is definitely less than 140cm, has found himself on the corkscrew section of Colossus at Thorpe Park without a seatbelt. I try and correct our flight path but I can’t, her grip is mother strong. At least I know she’s doing this intentionally now. Which initially comforts me, but then scares me when I think what she’d be capable of if she ever did lose control.

I understand why we were inverted as we come to the tight stairwell chicane, which, despite thousands of man years of engineering works to improve stations, has never been rerouted. But at least all the bins have now been mysteriously removed from all tube stations (except the 3 at Bank (I know where two of them are)).

My heart rate is jacked but we make it to the top of Kilimanjaro. No altitude sickness amongst the flock nor for a Gary Barlow who’s been recast as a doctor working for free in Heartbeat.
But one enemy pilot will only be able to watch the first half of SpongeBob and will have to fill in his colleague, who can only watch the second half, with what happened.

We land smoothly. I go to dart off almost forgetting to collect my immediate payment of three “thank yous” with no spaces in between them.
In my head I reply nonverbally with a thumbs up, but I don’t have any confidence, so I indecipherably grunt “no problem” like I’ve just held a door open for someone cooler than me.

I couldn’t care less about my immediate cash payment. By the time I scan out at the barriers, the good deed has already entered by bloodstream. I become lightheaded with euphoria.
Two minutes later I’m home and I’m so skittish I forget to put my loyalty code in the self-checkout machine. No points today. A shame given it’s a bumper Big Tasty meal feat. additional cheeseburger and a melon bag (wasn’t thinking straight).
But its academic. I barely taste or remember anything of the meal and regret buying it.
I’m on another staircase, leading to the gates of heaven and a Paul Hollywood handshake with St. Peter as he asks me “Can I interest you in a Big Tasty meal feat. a cheeseburger and a melon bag, Mr. Gates?”