Mark and Lucy tootled off on their Driving Practice Adventure as soon as we woke up. This was at about two o’ clock in the afternoon, but for us that is a good start on the day, and so it was just fine.
I was left in charge of dog maintenance and laundry. I flatter myself that I am quite good at both of these activities, having had plenty of practice. I tripped over the dogs a few times, and we went off to amble around the Library Gardens, after which I came home to do things like hoovering and picnic preparation.
I pottered about contentedly. I hung washing tidily on the rack and chopped carrots for salad. I swirled yoghurt on to egg custard and cut chunks of onion-and-tomato bread, to eat later, hot with butter.
This might sound like a dull way to proceed with a life, but since we have more than enough excitement at work to provide an adequate sufficiency of thrills, I do not mind this in the least.
Last night was enlivened by an amusing encounter with a small local idiot who stormed away from the taxi rank after unsatisfactory conversations with all of us, promising Mark that he would “get him some time when he wasn’t expecting it”.
Mark was surprised and perplexed by this, and jumped out of his car, mostly to illustrate the eighteen inch difference in stature between the two of them, but the chap pegged off rather quickly. The police, who had been watching from a safe distance in order to avoid overhearing anything which might put them in the uncomfortable position of having to make an arrest, came strolling over to see what was the matter.
“The thing is,” said the police lady seriously, who must not even have been born when I started driving a taxi, “is whether or not you feel as though you are being threatened or intimidated. Are you fearful?”
Mark considered this and decided that on the whole he was probably not in the least fearful. We felt a bit regretful about the young man, though. He has been a local nuisance since he first became old enough to drink, but has become considerably worse since he has discovered that it is possible to purchase cocaine on the Rec after dark. He is always very polite in taxis on his way there, partly because he is still in possession of all of his faculties at that stage, and also presumably because he does not wish us to tell anybody what he is doing. Obviously I wouldn’t dream of it.
I was in a growly frame of mind anyway. This is a time of year when you can visit the Lakes and stay in a nice hotel for a very reasonable price, at least until the Valentines price hike next week. Hence most of our customers in February are old age pensioners from Glasgow, or youthful scallywag couples from places like Liverpool or Wigan, who have managed to persuade Mam to look after the Kiddies for a night. These last are almost always staying in Aphrodite’s Lodge and will almost certainly be having a dreadful row by midnight.
Either way, this customer base inclines me to growl. The last sort of customer is the most likely to ask what I am reading, and almost all of them have read a book themselves once. The first type of customer tells me sagely how much cheaper taxis are in Glasgow, implying sorrowfully that I am feathering my nest at their hapless elderly expense. Obviously no Scot would ever do such a wicked thing.
I have got the customer service skills of a hungry Great White, and about the same level of interest in the topic. I have no wish whatsoever to engage in discussion with customers, and on the whole it is better that I don’t. There is at least one regularly visiting chap who still won’t get in my taxi, although it is months since I explained how poorly thought out his opinions were, and how badly informed I considered him to be. He struggles to get taxis now, because he won’t get in one driven by an Eastern European either.
Quite often I avoid conversation simply by pretending to be deaf. Most people get bored of shouting stupid questions after the third attempt, and subside into sullen silence in the back. A variation on that theme is to answer so quietly that the customer, who is usually asking what time I am likely to finish, can’t possibly hear what I am saying. Usually they are embarrassed to say so, and so stop pestering me.
I think that it is probably my favourite part of this job, that I don’t need to be polite to anybody at all. Obviously basic courtesy is nice, but that is as far as it goes. If anybody is vile, or rude, or insists that I agree with their horrid political opinions, I do not have to smile and be polite. I can stop the car and request that they leave.
I did that the other night, to a young gentleman who insisted on shouting drunken information about a the large wonderfulness of a certain part of his anatomy. I stopped, told him to hold tight to it order that it not drag on the seats, and to look after it at the side of the road whilst he was trying to get another taxi.
His friends were raucously amused, and unsympathetic, and the poor boy walked all the way back to Windermere.
It was the shouting that I minded rather than the information, but all the same, there are some mental images that I would rather not have inflicted on me.
My customers deserve my customer service abilities. I learned it all from them.
I took the picture in the Library Gardens this morning. It made me feel hopeful that spring might be coming.
