Taxi talk

Number Two Daughter joined us for coffee in bed this morning.

We are halfway through the bank holiday adventure and after we had all finished telling one another our Saturday night taxi stories, we passed a very satisfying hour listing all of the things that taxi customers say which make us want to assassinate them on the spot.

It was a long list. It would have been much shorter to list the things that don’t make us violently inclined.

Just in case you are ever travelling in a taxi and would like some hints, I shall include a few of them here.

Don’t say: “Where did all that rain come from?” Just don’t. The driver will think you are an idiot and it will show.

Also, don’t try and be amusing, especially if you have been drinking.

Don’t let the driver get you to within a hundred yards of your hotel and then helpfully pipe up: “It’s just here on the left.”

In fact, don’t ever give directions at all unless the driver asks for them. If you are staying in an hotel the driver will know where it is, and probably doesn’t need your advice, since you only arrived this afternoon.

It is helpful if you can remember what your hotel is called. I had a customer last night who had been drinking, and who produced a large wooden key fob by means of identifying his hotel. The key fob was blank on one side, and on the other it said: “Please leave key at Reception. ” It is a mark of how long I have been a taxi driver that this was sufficient information for me to take him back to the Lindeth Howe.

Don’t imagine that the driver isn’t listening to everything you are saying. If you are going to have a row in the back be prepared for it to be described in detail to the rest of the taxi rank later.

Don’t not know how to pronounce Aphrodite’s Lodge if you are staying there.

You are already ridiculous if you are staying there, because every taxi driver already knows you are trying to make your boring marriage more adventurous. They will speculate about you when you get out, and whatever you do don’t leave your camera on the back seat. You might get it back but not until it has been thoughtfully inspected by every taxi driver in Bowness. It serves you right for staying in a hostelry which enables you to choose between the Fred Flintstone Room or the Cleopatra Room, and promises discretion and hot tubs.

We had laughed so much we didn’t hear the footsteps on the back path, and suddenly we heard the unmistakeable bellow of Ritalin Boy’s voice downstairs, and had to get dressed in a hurry, because of it being a quarter to one.

Number One Daughter and Number One Son-In-Law have left their poopies with us for a few days, because of being up here for the funeral of Ritalin Boy’s Other Grandad. Unsurprisingly, Ritalin Boy’s Other Grandma feels as though she has got quite enough on her hands with a funeral and half a dozen grandchildren under her feet, and declined the suggestion of leaky poopies coming to visit for a week, so they are here.

Ritalin Boy distinguished himself by accidentally standing in puppy poo on the lawn, wiping his foot with his hand and then wiping his hand on his trousers.

Once they had gone we went to work.

Something lovely happened to me.

A very nice lady got in the back of the taxi with her friend and asked if I was the taxi driver who wrote Windermere Diaries.

I admitted that I was, and she very kindly said that she liked reading them a lot, and that they were inspiring.

I tried to think of something inspiring to say in person, but couldn’t at all, and had to content myself with a stupid grin and saying: “Gosh, thank you very much.”

She said that I should carry on writing them, and remember that there really were people out there who read them. This was nice because I am never entirely sure that it isn’t just my mum and dad really.

Also it was exactly the right thing to say when you get into a taxi.

The picture is Lucy being greeted by the poopies on her arrival home from work.

We didn’t arrive home until six this morning, and I am writing this now.

Enough.