'Fast Food Restaurant Description\r'

'Scene in a stiff Food Restaurant. I push through the crowds of modern people h everywhereing kayoedside the automatic doors of Burger King, kicking the untenanted paper cups and bags out of my way. Stepping inside, the first thing that hits me is the sound. It crashes over me, engulfing me, drawing me in. I step closer, into the midst of it. To my left get enclose of sit a youngish couple, anxiously victuals their toddler chicken nuggets dipped in tomato sauce. The ii year old cries and whines, putting his hand up to his mouth as if to say ‘no, no more. ’ The group of young people to my right atomic number 18 laughing, shouting and flirting.One of the boys has stolen a girl’s tremble and she leans across her friends, giggling happily, to try and snatch it back. I put up hear the radio playing faintly. The newest, noisiest dance handle struggles to be heard in the room respectable of people, resembling a school canteen. As I go for my way upstairs I pass a smartly dressed businessman, holding a chocolate-brown bag containing a burger, and his other hand to hold his drink. He has his mobile phone trapped betwixt his ear and his shoulder and he jabbers away to his co-worker about ‘redundancies’.An elderly woman, accompanied by two young, brightly dressed grandchildren, frowns at the man as she dissembles her way past, children in tow. The peck of the greasy, fatty burgers is overpowering now, and I can hardly breathe for the stink if freshly cooked French fries. They coat the floor, like a three-inch carpet, soft underfoot. I wonder why these restaurants counterbalance bother installing bins †nobody seems inclined to substance abuse them. Spotting no empty tables, I make my way back downstairs to format my food. I overtake the queue if people waiting for ‘veggie-burgers’ and order large fries and a chocolate milkshake.The young girl who serves me can’t be lots older than myself, yet she looks older, more tired, world-weary. Her shoulder length hair hangs limp and greasy under her baseball cap, and her red t-shirt is stained with fat and fizzy drinks. The woman next to me has dropped her tray, and someone with a sop up rushes to clean up the split cola, before anyone has a chance to fall in it. I smell the air, take a French fry out of the packet, pop it in my mouth and sigh. It tastes like grease, wheezing and fattening. Looking around me, I decide to honor a bench outside and, licking my lips in anticipation of my milkshake, I go in face of one.\r\n'