After a week of (partly) enforced gorging on Chinese food, biting into a hamburger induces in some of us foreign souls, who are contributing our 100 per cent and more to the Chinese economy, near orgasmic pleasures.

If one can get hold of a burger, that is.

And so it came to pass that I ambled into the People's Park McDonald's and dutifully joined one of the fairly long queues at lunch time. Having been thoroughly briefed by a fellow "Star" contributor, I spotted an immaculately dressed and leather clad "lady" who ever so unobtrusively managed to file in from the flank and started to busily peruse the menu card on the counter.

I was, of course, perfectly aware of the scenario that was to ensue but she had to be given the benefit of the doubt: she could just be making her choice from that mouth-watering McD menu and then await her turn in the queue, even though that would be most unlikely.

And so it was.

To borrow some technical terms from my fellow "Star" contributrix, Ms Brew; my "cool" light was getting low, my "power" light had started to flicker and my "trouble" light had come on strongly.

When the guy in front of me moved out, his tray overflowing, my "lady" jumped to the attack. She flashed a 50 yuan note at the assistant as I was actually being eyed to place my order. The compulsive manner of the queue jumper was such that her takeaway order was being commenced with right away.

By now, the only light on my control panel that remained operational was "trouble".

When I pointed out to the McD assistant that I was first, she acknowledged this but retorted that the intruder's order should not take long and could I please be patient.

Well, I could not.

The "lady" meanwhile looked at me like an innocent Angel caught at a Devils' party. My "trouble" light was by now ignited continuously to the point of burning out. The vocal chords were being readied for full take-off; then the whole McDonalds' shop vibrated thunderously. Startled assistant managers arrived from all directions. The waitress got more than an earful from me in a mixture of Chinese and English as did the infuriating queue jumper.

Concerned bystanders instantly translated the missing bits for the benefit of the queue jumper who would have preferred probably, at that moment, not to have been born.

A futile effort?

Perhaps.

Who am I, a lone educator among 15 million Shanghainese, a not inconsiderable number of whom are experienced and certified incurable queue jumpers.

But then, perhaps, there may be some benefit in circulating the adrenalin and having the dust blown off the vocal chords.

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