It’s been a while since I’ve had romantic advice from a cab driver, I think. But then, it’s a while since I’ve been taking cabs on my own late at night. Sure sign, I suppose, of a lady who needs romantic advice. From a cab driver.
How long have you been here? says the cab driver.
Eight years! I say, because I am incapable of lying to cab drivers, of pretending that I am a tourist. Even though I make a convincing tourist.
Have you met Mr Right? he says.
No! I say, with utmost cheer.
All the good ones are married and the handsome ones are gay! says the cab driver.
Sure! I say.
Let me tell you a story! says the cab driver. The best-looking woman I ever went out with – no offence to my wife - she was Australian. And I took her to a pub and I said, ‘what do you want? I’m having a pint of lager’ and she said, ‘I’ll have one too’ and I said, ‘I can’t buy you a pint of lager,’ and she said, ‘well, this isn’t getting off to a very good start’ and I said, ‘no’ and then she left!
Hm, I say. You can let me off anywhere here, I say.
£9.20, says the cab driver who won’t buy a woman a pint.
Keep the change, I say, giving him ten quid.
Keep looking! he says, with utmost cheer.
OK! I say. And then I slam the door.
