Goodness me, the Lake District has been busy today.
The sun has been shining, in between the clouds, and everybody for miles around who had had enough of their own street has loaded up their Vauxhall Astra and trundled up the motorway to visit Peter Rabbit.
Everywhere has been packed with people all day, a bit pink from the occasional burst of sunshine and determinedly dressed in what really ought to be underwear in this climate. Every bar, every restaurant, every cafe, has been crowded with families with tired children, with happy-looking elderly couples, and as the evening approached, with the first of the stag and hen parties, working themselves up for an adventure.
The camp sites are lined with visiting housing estates made up of enormous domed tents, every one full of a busy family trying to barbecue Tesco sausages brought from the freezer at home, making friends with the new neighbours and telling the children that they can go on a boat tomorrow.
Of course since it is Saturday I came out to work early this afternoon, and had to practice my Inner Tranquillity Exercises in order not to develop a stress-related illness brought about by nineteen thousand lost drivers.
There really are nineteen thousand extra cars coming through Windermere every weekend at this time of year. Their difficulties in trying to navigate their way around unfamiliar country roads in between countless other lost people have been made considerably worse this particular weekend, because they are also trying to work out how to reroute themselves to avoid the roadworks. These have been put there by the council as a surprise for anybody trying to get out of Windermere, and they have unexpectedly closed off the road completely at its most popular junction, much to everybody’s dismay.
My Inner Tranquillity Exercises largely consist of eating Extra Strong Mints and not shouting rude words at anybody.
If I have managed not to do this latter by the end of the night then it has been unusually successful. In the early evening I have got absent-minded pedestrians not to shout at, and by the end I have got intoxicated youths with inadequate funds not to shout at.
I failed not to shout at a gentleman last night who seemed unable to accept that the taxi fare back to his house would be payable in advance and in any case was twenty three pounds more than he had in his pocket. I obliged him to stop trying to negotiate the fare down to a fiver and leave my taxi, but it took some force of personality. I have found that when ejecting customers my best approach usually has to be loud and rude or it is ignored: and I am afraid I was both.
The customers after that were young ladies, who continued to talk to one another as if I were an autopilot, which is always my favourite sort of customer. They were going some way, and the subject under discussion was parking permits, which are very expensive in Windermere.
It turned out that one of the two had got the sort of permit which enables you to park absolutely anywhere, for as long as you like, and she had acquired it from a neighbour in exchange for performing a sexual favour. She described this in some detail, which fascinated me, and I tried my best to drive very discreetly in order that they continued not to notice me and would carry on with their conversation.
Her friend was surprised, and wondered how on earth she could have brought herself to do such a thing, the neighbour in question being elderly and unattractive.
“Because I phoned the council and they told me it would cost me eight hundred and fifty quid to buy one,” the holder of the permit explained practically, with a logical approach to financial management which impressed me deeply.
Much as I admired her pragmatism, I think on the whole I quite like driving a taxi. It is not a bad way to earn a living really.
It is late now, and the roads are quiet. I am outside the nightclub, and the night is nearly over.
I have taken a picture of my view to share with you.
