Heart on a string.
Long queues snake around the neighbourhood like thin, burning rods of red and yellow, inching forward ever so slowly albeit with shuddering halts and jttering squeaks; a congregation that, to the uninformed, would have been a rather curious phenomenon on a weeknight.
Out-of-sync beeps and impatient honks rattle through the cool evening; an unsolicited symphony brought about by many – young and old, rich and poor, housewives and husbands, sparkling-white teeth and cleanly-pressed suits – towards one common aim.
Oh, yes – everyone knows where they are going to tonight, before the clock strikes midnight:
The petrol station.