Crazy Cab

"Have dinner witn me!"


It is 5.30 am. I'm standing on the pavement outside Daymon's flat in Battersea cursing myself for booking such a ridiculously early flight AND relying on the local minicab service for transportation to Heathrow, instead of a black London cab with at least some sort of reputation to protect. 10 minutes late, a blue car without the faintest resemblance with a cab appears. It comes with a fat, little Tamil driver. I jump in - no choice.

The ride to the airport is hardly enjoyable. After no less than two minutes I start wondering if I need to plan my escape. His first question is deeply jealous: "Why you with that person, ey?". The question refers to my boyfriend. I try to interpret his question in the best possible way, but there is no doubt - he thinks it is his business to scrutinize his passenger's choice.


Later in the conversation, which I regret having agreed to, he decides to provide me with a rather detailed account of his sexual desires. "Chinese!" he exclaims, perhaps inspired by my taste. "Chinese girl is what I need." Fooled by his Hindu look, I have mistaken him for a faithful husband. Not so. He has a wife and a kid, but is hungry for more, "of course only for fun".

We ride slowly towards Heathrow in the lorry lane (fixed price, so why should he try to get rid of his conversation partner sooner than he has to). All other normal cars pass us by with a loud "wooom!". I am stuck in the back seat, heart racing, with this little pig's dirty mouth.

He has now decided that not only does he need Chinese girl, but Norwegian. "What you think of me!" he demands eagerly, glaring at me in the rear-view mirror. I try to change the subject of the conversation, but he knows his time with me is limited, and needs to know. "When you come back?", he barks, implying that we'll go out for a meal together. I try to explain that this might upset my boyfriend, but the problem is unfathomable to him. "You can take him," he finally decides. "Take him to dinner with us".


As we approach Heathrow, I swear I will never ride anything but a black, registered, normal London cab ever again. My little friend in the front seat is of a different opinion. He grabs my hand with his little paw. I cringe, expecting the worst. "I really like you", he declares. "I do. When you come back, we have to meet! I'll save your phone number. Can I save it? I will!". So excited is my new friend that he first decides to suggest I venture into corruption ["I'll write 30 pounds and you pay less!"] but then settles on giving me a discount. Happily, he waves and honks his horn as he drives away, while I walk in the opposite direction of Departures in pure life-loving delirium.