Petrol Fugitive

“Any petrol, sir?”
“No, just the newspaper please,” I replied, deep in thought about the morning’s upcoming tasks.
As I strolled out to my car, the early morning mist swirled round the forecourt, enveloping the car like a bandage. I noted that for once I was on time for work, and that I could have a leisurely drive into Guildford, and a decent amount of time to find a parking space. I drove off, and noticed the cashier waving at me. “What nice people this time of morning,” I thought, noting that at 7.15am, it was most unusual to find a person waving at you. As I eased the car into 3rd gear and raced onto the motorway, I noticed the pleasingly full petrol gauge.
The pleasingly full petrol gauge. Oh god. My mind screamed with the sheer illegality of what I had just done – filled my car up with petrol, and raced off without paying. I had passed 2 junctions before I recovered enough to attempt to find a slip road to turn round in. I had to pass the garage again in order to get back to the junction before, so I could get on the right side of the dual carriageway. As I passed, I saw two middle-aged men running around the forecourt, searching for the non-paying fugitive. Here I am, I thought, as I battled against the ice to get there before the police turned up in riot vans.
I finally entered the garage just as a burly security guard was dialling Constable Jenkins. The cashier explained as I handed over 43 pounds that she was just about to be sacked, and was very relieved that I’d turned up. In some roundabout and highly odd logic, I explained that I actually had done her a favour. She seemed very happy with that, and off I trundled, smirking at my audacity.
By then, of course, I was late for work.