Dearie me, it is getting difficult to be a diarist.
It is very easy to write an interesting entry on a day when I have been to the seaside, or been interviewed for a job, or become intoxicated and embarrassed myself: but as you will doubtless have noticed, the last few days have been completely devoid of noteworthy incident.
We are getting up and staggering about for a bit, washing up the little plastic picnic flasks and pots, and refilling them with more picnic and then going to work.
At work mostly we just sit quietly on the taxi rank, watching the world wagging past, eating our picnics and chatting, and sometimes I knit things or look at Facebook, and sometimes I write to you.
Ever now and again somebody thinks that they would like to go somewhere, which they always explain is just round the corner, and they would walk if it wasn’t for their bad leg or high heels or aversion to rain.
Sometimes I make sympathetic noises in response to this, and sometimes I make them feel mildly uncomfortable by just not responding at all. Which one I choose depends on which I think is more likely to accomplish a tip, given my instant assessment of their subconscious balance of guilt and generosity.
It is a complicated business, driving a taxi.
The thing is it is not at all easy, I can promise you, to make all of that into an entertaining diary entry which will have readers happily chortling with suppressed mirth.
I am privately sworn never to invent anything.
I could not even, in good conscience, exaggerate anything and make it sound more thrilling than it actually was.
I have been sitting scratching my head on the taxi rank, trying to find an incident of any interest whatsoever to describe to you.
There have been one or two.
There were two pigeons courting on the opposite house roof this morning whilst we were having our coffee, nodding at one another and making their very lovely burbling noise, except she became distracted and wandered off at the wrong moment, and was ambushed by a second, more determined although less gloriously beplumed suitor, who stomped about between her and her original amour, who eventually gave up and flew away, much to her disappointment.
The dogs have eaten almost all of their sock, which is now just a tangle of fibres, some of which have been scattered up and down the stairs.
See what interesting things have been happening in my life.
We have spent so long on the taxi rank over the Easter holiday that I am starting to get bed sores. Mark has just observed that the most interesting event of the night so far has been when I lost count of the stitches on my knitting needle, which was certainly a bit traumatic, I had got to a hundred and eight and had to start all over again.
* * *
I am a bad perso0n.
I got to that point of writing and something awful happened.
Leigh and Nigel from Lakeside Taxis walked past the task rank on their way from the Bodega Bar to the Stag’sa Head.
I am notn a sensible sober taxi driver any more.
They are such a ban idfluence.
Number Two Daughter came to the pub as well.
Lucy sniffed when we told her that we were goi9ng out to the pub instead of shouldering opur responsibilities like proper parents.
“If you think you are going to do sex when you have got drunk,” she said, “go somewhere else. It is not something I want to hear anything about”
I am afraid it makes the first part of the Diary entry untrue. It is not at all easier to write a day’s entry when I have accidentally become intoxicated.
It is almost impoosible to write anything.
I will talk to you tomorrow and tell you about my headache.
However I would like you to know that I loove everybody, life is spleendid.
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