THERE’S SOMETHING AMISS ABOUT THIS PLACE

I’m English and we call them a cafeteria. But this has one of those truck-stop American vibes that you see in the movies (hell, I’d never even been to America) and everybody has trans-Atlantic accents. I hear the mumbled chat.

The bikers were piling in, the waitresses chewed gum, the truckers wore those targeted T-Shirts that said how badass they are.

I thought I was just turning off an A-Road from London and here I am in a diner in what felt like the middle of nowhere. The interior was lit with blinding artificial light and the outside was wrapped up in a fierce darkness.

‘What can I get you ‘hun?’ The waitress said.

There I was pulling into a local eatery in my BMW and now I’m in one of those Twin Peak diners.

There’s something amiss about this place.

‘Do you have a menu?’ I ask.

She slaps one down on the table. She leans close into me. I feel the heat from her breath warm my entire body.

‘Where am I?” I ask.

‘What do you mean?’ The waitress says.

‘What is this place?’ I ask.

‘Truck stop.’ The waitress says.

What was the last thing I remember before pulling in here?

I was tired. I was really really tired. I hadn’t slept all night. I worked an eighteen-hour shift and had to get back home first thing in the morning and see my wife. I was…