I am buying petrol at the local BP garage on my way to my weekly football match on Saturday lunchtime. Along with a full tank of petrol, I am buying some water, some sports drinks and a couple of energy bars for me and my fellow team-mates.

I place them on the counter and give my pump number to the youth behind the counter, who looks for all the world as if he has been undertaking some sort of sleep deprivation experiment. Three weeks without sleep would be my guess if asked.

He rings through the items and totals it up. I think I see some drool escaping from the edge of his down-turned mouth.

“£57.84” he says without looking at me.

“Thank you? Can I get a bag please?” I reply.

He pushes a plastic bag onto the counter with complete disdain and leaves it right next to my goods. I hand him my credit card. He looks at me, and then at the drinks and energy bars. I look back at him. He looks back at me. Our staring competition is interrupted by the till beeping.

“It needs your PIN.” he explains in the tone you would use if explaining to your Grandma how a DVD player works.

“OK. Shall I put the items in the bag myself then?” I continue.

He looks at me blankly.

“Your PIN?” he repeats.

“The bag?” I counter.

Silence.

I briefly relent and enter my PIN as he continues to ignore me, and more crucially, continues to ignore my purchased items and the bag he has thrown down next to them.

We wait for my PIN to be approved. Neither of us is looking at my goods. The tension is palpable.

It takes a few seconds for the approval, and whilst waiting we continue our staring competition and I can feel the surface of my eyes drying out. It beeps again and he hands me back my card and a receipt. I put them in my wallet without taking my eyes off him. I am sure I have put the card back in the wrong place, but he can not be allowed to win again.

There is a stand-off. I will not put the items in the bag, and he is looking at me like I want something else.

“The bag?” I add helpfully, in case he was a little confused by what was happening around him.

“Right.” he says huffily, as if I have asked him to tidy his bedroom. He slowly puts the things in it.

I take my bag of goods and exit the petrol station. The more observant among you will no doubt have noticed that at no point did he say Please or Thank You, or even offer so much as a smile. I do not mind packing my own goods, and in fact I do it regularly in Sainsburys and Tescos, so I have proven I am not averse to hard graft.

It is clearly his fault for bringing out the worst in me.

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