Getting into the taxi cab outside my home this morning, I prepare myself for that uncomfortable forced chit chat that seems to be a necessity in a taxi driver’s job description.
“Where tae?” The driver asks with a particularly strong accent and a gruff tone.
“Little France please,” I reply.
I shift around in my seat, try to find an area of leather that is not stained, fasten my safety belt and fret over the fact I don’t remember locking my front door. The car starts up, splutters and coughs, before slowly coming to life.
“Hi!” The driver suddenly exclaims. Considering I’ve been in the car a good 5 minutes already I am a little taken aback but return the salutations.
He sniffs, shifts in his seat and asks me, “How are you today?”
“Oh not bad thanks,” I reply, sighing. It’s eight in the morning and I’d much rather be in my bed than sitting in a cab which smells suspiciously like vomit and wet dog, talking to a silver haired hippie who drives like a maniac.
Silence looms for a moment or two before the driver clears his throat and pipes up, “Och aye, I’m alright, just taking a lassie tae Little France then I’ll be finished.”
I freeze, my heart seems to stop, my hand touches the suspicious stain on the seat next to mine.
“Ok Pat, see you soon babe, love you…”
Oh no oh no oh no…
He had of course been using a hands free phone.
Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to sink to the ground in the hope that it will open up and swallow me whole.
Monday, April 23, 2007