We have had a very quiet Sunday, and now we are on the taxi rank.
One of the other drivers lives on the same alley as we do, and he waved cheerily from his balcony as we set off and wished us a good rank. This is taxi driver humour. It’s a nice day for a rank, we say to one another.
Saturday night was fairly uneventful. That is, nobody was sick or murdered anybody. I had one couple in my taxi who were clearly completely off their heads on cocaine, and who sniffed and shouted and waved their mobile phones in my face: but then to set against them I had a customer whom I like very much.
He was also very intoxicated, and talked his head off all the way home, but I don’t mind because he is in the Household Cavalry, which he thinks is the very best thing in the whole world ever, and probably spends his spare time proudly polishing his buttons. He is hoping that eventually he will find a girlfriend. He will probably manage this one day if he talks a bit less, listens a bit more, and thinks about things other than marching and football.
I had some people who got in the taxi and said cheerily: “It’s us again,” and smiled. This is always wasted on me, because my brain stopped registering customers years ago, and I have never got the smallest recollection of who they are or where they are going. I try to pretend that this is not true, because it is unflattering, but it is.
I had one woman who sobbed loudly and stickily all the way back to her hotel, wiping her runny nose rather repulsively on the back of her hand. In the event her tears fast turned to affronted offence when I explained that it was time and a half after eleven o’ clock, even for upset people. I didn’t ask why she was upset because she wasn’t going very far and it didn’t seem worth running the risk of a delay whilst she explained.
I took four boys who were noisily irate at having been unjustly chucked out of the nightclub for being loud and tiresome and taking drugs in the gentlemen’s powder room, and one man who kindly gave me a tenner for a three pounds sixty journey. He was my favourite and I hope he lives a long and happy life.
I took some people who didn’t know where they were going, and when I got them to their front door after some judicious questioning and consideration, they announced triumphantly: “It’s just here on the left.” This always makes me want to stab people to death. I know it’s just here on the left, which is why we have miraculously just arrived outside it.
I took some people who were staying in the holiday cottage just by the farm. This is along windy roads, and they were drunk. They thought it would be funny to be patronising about women drivers being slow and careful, so I put my foot down. They were ashen and shaking when they got out, and shoved twenty quid in to my hand and staggered away without asking for change.
I took a gentleman to the nightclub who glared at me and reminded me that the last time we had met I had made him look an idiot all over the internet: he turned out to be one of the fire brigade. Regular readers will remember this incident. In his favour he turned out to be very nice and friendly and pointed out that the actual firemen just do what they are told and that the idiots are further up the tree, writing Health and Safety manuals, and policies and codes of practice.
I reassured him that I knew this really, which I do, and we parted on good terms, except that he told me we should sweep the chimney more often, which was irritating because Mark has his own sweep’s brushes and actually sweeps it quite a lot. Perhaps I should log it on here and then I would have evidence if only I could be bothered ever to check it.
In short, it was just another night.
And here we are again.
