Burger Barn

So. If you're wondering (and even if you're not), the title comes from a P. Larkin poem. You can read it here.

Yesterday, I went to pick up my car from a local mechanic. Five hours into what was supposed to be a two-hour job. Not ready. The guy under the car mutters (rather loudly), "We're not making burgers here." Yikes. What have I gotten myself into?