A trip to McDonald’s used to be the most exciting thing that could happen to you. The long, stretching expanse of childhood would be set aglow by those brightly coloured chairs and walls; the blinding, traffic light red of ketchup; the tingle of too much salt; the tantalising new toy waiting to be ripped out of its tiny plastic bag. If you got invited to a birthday party at McDonald’s, it was like being invited to the Met Gala, if the Met Gala involved giggling, screaming children running around the indoor playground and an appearance by Ronald McDonald. My parents only took me as a rare treat – they weren’t keen on how unhealthy chicken nuggets and fries were, or on the idea of letting us have our way too often – but this only added to its allure.
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