I am not writing a diary tonight.
This is because today has happened at a complete run, and tomorrow looks rosy with promise to be exactly the same.
Hence I am going to take the opportunity of lazing about completely every time I do not have a customer in the taxi. I am going to read my book and drink my chai and stare pointlessly out of the window, absently gawping at the village drunks as they bellow abuse at one another and try to steal each other’s girlfriends.
This will be even more pleasant than it usually is, because Mark has cleaned my taxi out for me, and it is shiny and fresh and smells wonderful.
The steering wheel is always my favourite bit of a clean taxi. I do not notice it becoming increasingly sticky as the days pass, but it does, and when it has been cleaned it feels suddenly, surprisingly wonderful.
We once had a driver who was an exceptionally heavy smoker. The tar must have oozed out of the palms of his hands, because when you got in the taxi after he had finished, your hands actually used to stick to the steering wheel. I used to do school runs after he had the taxi on the night shift, and used to start every day belting back into the house for a dishcloth, swearing furiously.
Today I have done an enormous pile of laundry and given our two visiting dogs a haircut. It is not very long since they had the last one, but I know Number One Daughter is unlikely to get around to doing it again for a while, and so I thought I would get it out of the way so that she doesn’t need to worry again until Christmas.
It is Bank Holiday weekend now, and I have already been interrupted several times during the composition of these paragraphs, and so I am going to desist.
I think probably I will see you again on Monday.
