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The scene was a weekend morning, and I was in a foul mood, refueling my mum’s car. This was one of those petrol stations that operates as a supermarket, so you run the risk of joining a queue customers carrying goods of somewhat expensive items. It's an awful situation to happen when the sole aim is to pay for some fuel. Awful.

I was fourth in the queue. There was only employee working, a young woman. Something stood out about her. When the faffer at the front of the queue had finally paid for his purchases, a baked snack, and his box of eggs, I was certain I heard the cashier tell him a wonderful day. Strange. Perhaps I’d misheard, or maybe she did say it and was being sarcastic. I wondered if perhaps she was a supporter in my fight against faff, echoing my disdain for people who hold up simple fuel-buyers like me.

I moved up, to third in the queue. The new leader of the queue discharged her fuel-only transaction with notable efficiency. Once more it happened: “I hope you have a fantastic day.” In fact, it was “have a wonderful day”. Someone from the US? In Stourbridge? Her tone suggested it, and few locals tells people a wonderful day, or merely a pleasant day. Quite out of place. It's uncommon to find US citizens knocking around Stourbridge, least of all employed at gas stations or anywhere else.

Now I stood second. Behind a poor older woman embroiled in a lengthy struggle with her carryall, her purchases, her handbag and her loyalty card. This took an eternity. Once completed, she too was wished an excellent day. Clearly an American. I might have verified it by cracking a joke at the cashier, to see if she did that thing as they gaze at you, without a smile, and state very earnestly: “You are very amusing.” But I couldn’t think of anything hilarious to express.

I just had to settle the genuine warmth – or an impersonation of it, which amounts to no different – while she stared straight at me, piercingly, and told me to have a great day. I felt better for it. It was a good thing.