Unsavoury Conversations With Taxi-Drivers, Part 1.

Twelve years ago, and I’m late for work.

I work at my local newspaper in the South-West of England, it’s a good job, I do well and I live in a nice house – acres of grounds, stables, pool table, double-oven Aga, all that – and I always have a few hundred pounds spare at the end of each month.

I call John The Taxi.

John The Taxi: OH YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN HAVEN’T YOU?! TEN MINUTES MAAATE.

John The Taxi always spoke in Caps Lock.

I tumble into his taxi, still faffing with tie and cuff-links.

John The Taxi: BIG NIGHT AGAIN WAS IT, EH?

Me: *Grunt*

A few minutes pass. It becomes clear that, this morning, John The Taxi is auditioning for an imaginary part in a reboot of the Cannonball Run films.

Me: Actually John, I’m not in THAT much of a hurry. I don’t mind being late, I just fancy being alive. You can ease-off a bit.

JTT: Thing is, I’m desperate for a shit.

Silence.

Me: Oh.

JTT: Do you know what the funny thing is? I’m looking forward to it, if I can hold on in time to get to the lav. In many ways –

Time stands still for a brief moment as the cosmos prepares itself for the wisdom of John The Taxi.

JTT: In many ways I prefer a good shit to a fuck.

More silence.

JTT: Here we are then.

Me: Two minutes, John.

I tumble out of the car and into the reception area of my building, the domain of Difficult Penny.

Me: I need ten quid out of petty cash for my taxi. I’ll replace it at lunch.

Difficult Penny: What if I say no?

Me: He’s about to shit himself.

Pause.

Difficult Penny: Just this once.