K8 the GR8

I watched as he nervously approached the front door like a man on the verge of discovering the meaning of life.  He seemed so damned happy and full of hope that I almost felt bad for him, guilt quivered like a hamster in the corner of my mind that such a nasty deed should have to happen to this random bloke and to whoever lived inside that house, but nevertheless, it had to be done.

I waited until he had stepped over the threshold to leave my stakeout position, closing the door of the seemingly innocent taxi cab quietly so as not to attract attention.  Slinking unseen to the front door, I pushed it a little to find its lock engaged, but this didn’t matter, for I’d been given a key.  They had almost made it too easy for me… I was privy to names, addresses, alarm codes, times of expected visitations… the plans had been laid out in detail with the omission of the actual reason for it all, but I didn’t care.  At a price of €20,000 per head for these people, I didn’t ask questions for fear the job would be given to another taxi driver because hey, I have a wedding to pay for.

I pressed my ear to the door and waited as voices receded before inserting the key into the lock.  I opened the door slowly and a warm smell leaked out; pine and perfume mingled with a feint suggestion of home cooking and guilt twinged again, but was quickly squished underfoot as I inched into the first available empty room and waited behind the door-jamb.  Dusk was approaching, my timing was perfect.  I waited.

As night fell, I heard laughter, sometimes nervous but mostly warm and interested; the cadence of conversation rose and fell and I was getting bored. The time had come… I had to separate them, only to have them re-join in un-imaginably unpleasant circumstances, the details of which only my boss had knowledge of.  He was probably welcome to them given his reputation as a twisted gang-lord who seemed to have his filthy hands dipped into more pots than I care to imagine and I knew I was just as bad, but nobody needed to know except for a random few other taxi drivers who had the ability to slink through the night in such obvious disguise… the chosen ones… such a strange honour.  I tapped on the radiator with an unnatural urgency.

“What was that?” I heard the question, deliciously predictable.

Footsteps approached as I fished in my pocket for the first syringe with my gloved hand.  A shadow darkened the doorway and I sucked in my breath.  A man entered the room and I instinctively knew he was reaching for the light-switch by my head, so quickly grabbed his mouth from behind and emptied the contents of the syringe into his jugular - he collapsed like a popped balloon and I dragged his limp form silently to the couch with little effort.  Far too easy.

She however proved to be a tougher target, for I sensed immediately that her natural instinct had whispered to her that something was amiss - I heard the silvery sound of a kitchen knife as it was slyly removed from its housing block and suddenly the house was far too quiet for my liking.  I edged toward the fireplace and stole the poker from its hook and primed it for reckless damage… the suspense was fun.

I heard her.  A creak, a tell-tale sound of nervous intent.  We stood for a second, back-to-back, separated by the section of wall adjacent to the doorway, each aware of the other’s position by sheer logic alone.  The blade suddenly flashed as an arm appeared, the knife flailing in a random fashion as I almost realized too late what was happening.  I ducked as the knife caught my arm; the sharp pain awakened my instinct as fresh warm blood began to ooze into the fibres of my work shirt.  Shit.  I ducked and crouched, swinging the poker a full 360 degrees around the door jamb.  I connected with soft tissue and heard a shriek as I rounded the corner to face my victim, then heard a sickening whistle as the blade passed too close to my ear.  I grabbed the opportunity while her balance was off.  The syringe sank into her neck and she fell, the knife clattering to the hard-wood floor with alarming volume.

Careful not to contaminate the scene, I removed my sock and tied it tightly around my wound, then checked the floor for spilled blood to find nothing… lucky.  Satisfied that my work was almost done, I began to prepare the limp bodies for transit.  He fitted nicely into the boot and she, well she did an excellent impression of a drunken innocent.

The journey to the drop-off point was uneventful.  I played Beethoven’s 9th symphony over and over to inspire the madness… sometimes I fear the truth that A Clockwork Orange may have had more of an effect on my soul than I’d first realized… good old Ludwig Van.  I was empowered by the fact that the deed had run smoothly, laughed my way through a police-check along the way as I gushed through the tired old phrases… ‘Yeah, a little worse for wear I’m afraid’ and ‘I bet she’ll feel that in the morning!’  They didn’t give me a second glance.

I spotted the white van at the address I’d been given… a quiet by-road near an unsuspecting village.  I fished for the second key I’d been given and checked for passers-by as I opened the rear doors of the van and transferred the unsuspecting couple with speedy stealth, right on time.  I approached the driver’s door of the van and waited.  The man inside rolled down his window and nodded subtly. 

“Not bad for your first job… good timing.  He’ll be happy with that.”  He noticed the bloody patch on my arm and the ridiculous looking bandage.  “Small price to pay, hey.  I’ve seen worse.  Here’s your consolation prize…”  He fished a small briefcase from the passenger seat and handed it over with a wink.

Neat bundles of notes lay inside to the tune of €40,000 and I smiled.  A small white envelope lay on top of the piles which I opened as I sat back into my taxi cab, but I paused before reading the name.  Do I really want to do this all over again?  I have a reputation for being a soft-head, a do-gooder… if they only knew.  Is it worth throwing all that away for dirty cash?

Hell yes.

I opened the envelope and read the name of my next target, then frowned, placing the paper on the seat beside me.  What does it mean?  Who cares?  I fired the engine up for its second job of the night and glanced once again at the mystery name of my next victim.

I’m coming for you, English Mum.

I have it on good authority that despite offering low petrol/diesel prices, many fuel stations around the country are putting dilutants and additives into their go-juice.  Hardly surprising really.

The side-effects of these additives are damage to the engine, less mileage per gallon, and I was told that there were even a few incidents of cars blowing up in the UK, but I’m sceptical.

So, my tip to all drivers out there is: Avoid Tesco, Applegreen and Topaz pumps like the plague, and stick to Esso.  It may feel more expensive to fill a tank, but at least your car won’t explode.

Rick O’Shea asked the question on the radio earlier - ‘What’s the bit of non-news that screwed up your day today?’ and I searched through the happenings of my day so far and was just a tiny bit dismayed to find that it was actually turning out to be a pretty good day.  I caught myself wishing that I had something interesting and funny to text in.

Be careful what you wish for.

I got home from my driving to find TAT had just woken up… he showed off his new phone straight away like a child on Christmas morning.  It’s a pretty nifty model, a Nokia NSeries N95 with an 8GB memory card, and a whopping 5 megapixels worth of camera stuff. 

It’s not as nice as mine what I won, but far superior to TAT’s.  He was delighted with himself, and told me his account of the night before with glee.  The conversation ran somewhat as follows;

-o0o-

TAT - So where are we going?

Drunkard - Uhhh… somewhere in Kilmac.  Anywhere there, I dunno… yeah.

TAT drives to Kilmacanogue and announces that the fare will be nine euros

Drunkard - Oh.  Wait.  No.  That’s not right.  There’s something wrong, uhhh…. wait.

Drunkard sits with a confused look on his face and shuffles slowly in his pockets for some invisible money.  After a while, he turns to get out of the car.

TAT - Oi!  Where are you off to?  Are you settling this bill or what?

Drunkard - Uhh… I’ve to go to the cash machine, I’ll be right back.

TAT - Well here you may as well leave your phone as collateral, sunshine - I didn’t come down in the last one y’know.

Drunkard hands his phone to TAT and stumbles away to the cash-machine where he spends an eternity.  He returns to the car eventually, sits in, and closes the door.  He stares into space again, saying nothing.

TAT - So… hate to be a bore, but how’s the cash situation looking?

Drunkard looks confused, then disappears back to the cash-machine for a further eternity.  TAT is on the edge of his rag, losing money by the second during busy hour, and is definitely not amused.  The drunkard finally re-appears, and mumbles over and over to himself as he sits back in.

Drunkard - No, it’s not right, not right… something’s wrong.

TAT growls softly

Drunkard - How about I give you twenty euros and we’ll call it quits?

TAT - Ok!!!

Drunkard - Or we could leave it at nine euros and you could bring me home?

TAT - No mate, the meter goes back on for that, but twenty euros will cover it nicely, no worries!

Drunkard - Ahh for ff… Ok fine, I’ll get out here so.

???

TAT - *amused* Ok so, here’s your phone.

Drunkard - NO I TOLD YOU I DON’T WANT IT!!!!

Drunkard gets out and walks away, waving and shouting thanks to TAT, minus his swish phone.

-o0o-

Upon hearing this story, I instantly felt pity for the dude.  I’ve been in rag order before, and have stupidly had to rely on the kindness of strangers to guide me to safety, and it’s not a good situation to find yourself in - especially if you’ve lost a nice new phone.  I’d be gutted.  Ok, so it’s his own fault for getting himself into that situation, but there could be any number of reasons as to why he was discombobulated like that.

ME - You have to give it back.

TAT - What?!?!  Are you crazy?  He was a muppet - a muppet with a nice phone!  It’s mine now!

ME - But it’s the right thing to do!!  He might be lost without it… besides, doing the right thing comes back to you.

TAT - Me bollocks!

I searched through the contacts on the phone and found an entry that said ‘Mam’.  I called it.  The cow was in Spain, so I paid through the nose to inform her that her son’s phone was in our possession, and could she pass on my number?  She seemed confused.  It must be a confusing family they have there.

About ten minutes later, I got a call from the drunkard, now severely sober and extremely embarrassed.  I relayed the story to him and he cringed and apologised, again and again.  I know that feeling.  He was a pretty nice guy, maybe about thirty or so… we had a laugh for about fifteen minutes and I agreed to leave the phone in my cab-company’s base, which he was extremely grateful for.

“It’s ok, though,” he laughed - “the phone was insured so I have another one now.”

I paled.

Shite!!!  No, seriously, SHITE!!!!  Now I have to give the phone back… a seriously nice and un-wanted phone!!!  Where’s the justice in that?

I poured TAT a strong whiskey and broke the news to him.

He hates me now.

It’s not my fault though!  I have morals!  I’m the sort of stupid cow that finds two hundred quid on a pavement and hands it in, the sort who gives away beautiful pieces of mobile phone kit, just because it’s right.  I’ve called Karma, but its phone is ringing out and now I just feel really, really stupid.

And then do you know what happened?

My cat chased a mouse into a coal-bag so I reached in to grab its blackened little scared body and save it’s tiny life, but the little fucker bit me.  Hard.  It dug it’s teeth into the quick of my thumbnail all the way to the back field so now I have a very sore thumb.  And possibly rabies.  Tetanus at least.

What’s happening?  Who is testing me, and why?

*sulk*

I’m afraid this is the most interesting thing that happened to me at work today:

As much as I know it’s wrong to take the piss out of a town, I can’t help but notice that Bray makes it far too easy.

Ok, this is it. This is the story of one of my worst fears coming true. It’s a good thing I came prepared! It’s difficult to write because it’s still fresh and it gives me palpitations just to think about the nightmares I’m going to have as a result of it; so I’m hoping that flushing it down my blog will help a bit. Sorry, it’s going to get messy in here.

-o0o-

I picked him up from a car park in Bray today as per instructions from base. He appeared straight away, a tall man wearing a grey suit, carrying two bags full of beer from the off licence.

When he sat into the seat he gave me a sharp shock, with a two-second time limit to regain my composure. He pleaded with me to bring him home, desperation was in his voice and his face… his face. This guy would be a good advertisement for why it’s not a good idea to put water on a burning chip-pan. Perhaps it was a petrol bomb? Something had stolen the skin from the entire near-side part of his head and what remained was topped with a bright ginger mop of hair. He stank. He was pissed as a fart and had the worst case of hiccups that I’ve ever heard in a person.

Why did I let him stay in the car? I dunno. Was it because I’m a sucker for a needy, or was it because I was looking for a good story? Who knows. Stayed he did.

He calmed slightly and I asked him where he wanted to go.

“Tallaght” he said.

“Okaaay… now just to warn you that might cost around fifty quid and I’m going to need most of that up front, I’m afraid.”

“Whhaaa? Ah no, I’ll give you a twenty. All I have’s a twenty.”

“Fu.. no way, chancer! I’ve me own mouths to feed. I can bring you to a bus stop or a train station though?”

“Anything, jus gemme outa here. But don’ go back inta d’town, I don’t wanna go there, take the back roads.”

Strange request. I was driving around now, heading south where he pointed. He calmed further as we drove, and started crooning gently.

“I love you… I love you so much… you’re lovely for taking care ‘me. I love you more than I love myself right now….” the rest trailed into mumbles interspersed with ‘Y’know warri mean?’ or, ‘You know what I’m talkin’ about, don’tya?” to which my automated reply - ‘Yep.’ was standard.

I picked up some garbled words, and picked out that what I had here, was your genuine bonifide tinker. The fact was disguised by the scarring and the accent which had a Belfast sort of frosting to it. I asked him about it, and he uttered a few staccato words (still battling seriously stubborn hiccups) - soldier… army… real… with random lines of semi-coherent speech. Turns out he did a few terms alright, interrupted by court, prison, and a coma.

Well. Fucking. Dodgy. Mate.

As we drove, he reached into his bottle bag and withdrew a bottle of Bud. He de-capped it, sipped for a bit, then belched loudly. At least that cleared his hiccups I suppose. He then leaned in towards me and started whispering sweet nothings. The stench was incredible and raised my hackles instantly.

“OI, BACK OFF MATE.” I said sincerely. “Put that belt on and sit the fuck still. Try anything funny again and I’ll radio the coppers. Don’t want that, now, do ye?”

“No. Sorry I’m sorry - sorry. Sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I just got out of court! Sorry, so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry etc…” for ten bastard minutes. Then I hit traffic and he had my undivided attention. He asked for my hand (this is the usual stage when drunken old men realise that it’s not appropriate to chat up your driver and get so apologetic that they feel like they have to shake my hand to confirm it.) so I offered it and shook. He rose it to his lips and planted a fat wet kiss on my knuckles.

My squirm factor ploughed the ceiling and I looked in my rear view mirror to see that the dude behind was watching intently. Nice one. My passenger then started to kiss my shoulders wetly and roughly and so I pulled the fuck over.

Bollocks. I can’t get out. Fight or flight or money and car? Bollox to it. Fight.

“OUT YOU GET” I shouted.

“Ahh no don’t do that, I love you. I’m gonna give you a hickey as payment! He chuckled and I laughed maniacally at his fucking hilarious joke. But hey guess what? It wasn’t a joke. He reached over and grabbed my neck with his right hand and pulled himself towards me. Our heads collided and I elevated to Code Green and my sanity left the building.

I whipped one of these bad boys out and shoved the pointed tip into his larynx.

“Don’t fuck with me, fuckface.” It was the best I could come up with I’m afraid. I’ve thought of loads more things I should’ve said since, but the delivery seemed to do the job nevertheless. He sank with huge melancholy back to his side and slid out of the door, slamming it after what seemed like an eternity.

I sped away and my sanity returned. I suddenly felt like I needed to throw up, so I parked by the beach and sat still for a second. Adrenalin ebbed away with the tide and I screamed. I rolled up the windows and closed the sunroof and I screamed for thirty seconds.

When I’d finished, I was a new person. Alive, strong, powerful, shitscared… it’s another patch on the quilt that is my life and I’m better for it. You make your own luck. I had no problem picking up drunks from the Foggy Mirror after that, their leers paled by comparison.

The base fed me sweet tea and cigarettes and cured my shakes by taking the piss for a while and then sent me out on a nice relaxing drive to Terenure. Just what the doctor ordered… rush-hour contemplation.

-o0o-

To people who love me and hold friendships with me, don’t freak out. I mean this most for my mum and dad who will, if they find this, go completely ape-shit. Not without good reason, either - I have babies too and understand the intense worry. They will tell me to quit taxi driving but I’m going to stand my ground. This is life, and if I run away I’ll never grow stronger. I’ve been vulnerable all my life and that was a mistake, toughness must be bet-in through experience, which is what I got today.

Wow, that feels so much better, the burden’s been lifted and I feel floaty with relief. I’m so glad I have a way to get it out! Maybe I won’t have nightmares after all. They’re your nightmares now.

I finished my shift at seven and pulled into a supermarket to buy some bits as you do.  As I rounded the last rack of parking spots I braked suddenly to avoid running a man over, and he waved and smiled pleasantly, crossing my path.  I parked up and headed toward the ATM.

I was standing in the queue for the cash machine when I heard his voice over my shoulder.

“Have you many hours left to work?”  I turned around.  It was the same man… he was dark skinned, holding a mobile phone in his hand and wearing a pretty naff jumper.  He spoke with a true Irish accent and with the smile of a thousand sailors.

“No I’m finished, thank God!”  I instantly knew that saying this was a bad idea… an ONOsecond later I realised I’d just told him there was a rake of cash in my car.

“Hey!  I know you from somewhere!” (Warning bell #1)

“Uhhh… I don’t recognise you, mate.”

“Yeah… you’re… ummm… it was last week, you said you were from… where was it again?”

“I live near Jack Whites Pub”  I said.  DAMMIT!  Stop answering questions!!!  I mentally slapped myself hard across the face.

“Ahh yeah, yeah, that’s right… I’m from Ashford meself, that’s how I know you.” 

“What?!”  I laughed in disbelief and turned away.  Second in line now.

He continued the conversation anyway, telling me how he’d got a new bank card in the post but he’d forgotten the PIN, and that he had no diesel, and he had to drive to Stillorgan to pick up his sister…  he babbled away while Alarm bells #2, #3 and #4 rang for Ireland in my brain.

It’s my turn at the ATM, and this dude is still there, floating nervously about with a mobile phone stuck to his ear, invading my bubble and triggering Alarm bell #5.  I inserted the card and typed four digits, then entered the cash request, only to have it tell me my PIN was incorrect.

“Oh dear!”  I said loudly.  “Wrong card!!  You’ve jinxed me!  Tell you what… here’s a fiver, hope it helps!”

He looked at the five euro note in my hand and put on his sad face.

“Maybe if you could lend me ten or twenty euros, I could put it in an envelope for you and drop it into Jack Whites!  Here’s my number, look, on me phone… take it down.”  Alarm bell #6 jingled away as I smiled like a siamese on the outside.

“Sorry, that’s a no… I’ve been stung with that one before!!”

“Look, here’s my number…”

“Take the fiver and keep hustling.  You’re doing a great job.”  I walked back to my car and inserted every last penny of its contents into my shoulder bag which I slung round my neck and tightened nice and snug.   The man had walked away and was talking to a tall lady in white slapper boots, so I snuck back to the cash-machine and withdrew my shopping money on the sly.

When I’d finished bribing my trolley to come along, I walked in through the front door of the shop and glanced behind me, to see the lady in the slapper boots right on my tail.  I made a point of noticing her, but she looked away and fell behind.  A bag of apples, 4 red onions and a watermelon later, I turned to see that she had returned and was lingering behind me… I knew I felt her eyes.

I abandoned the trolley and went back outside, to see if I could find yer man with the fiver.  No sign whatsoever, nothing to report to the security staff.  I continued my efforts to blow 200 quid on random effects and checked it all out with no bother at all from anyone, even though I was bricking huge chunks of paranoia all the while.  The white booted lady was waiting outside (for an hour?!?!) but did nothing as I passed her, so I sorted my bits and bolted.

Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe the white booted lady was a coincidence… but I know from my poker endeavours that good faith doesn’t mean much these days.  Anyway I don’t have a diary so this is the next best thing and it felt like it needed noting.  You just read my diary!  How very dare you.

This isn’t my story, it’s the Accidental Terrorist’s because fortunately, daytime taxi driving doesn’t spew up many  stories like this one. 

We sat in the sunroom to eat dinner this evening, and as we ate, he relayed his adventures to me.  The fork to mouth repetition slowed more and more as the story unfolded, and I began to feel sick,  it’s that good.

He told me about how he’d picked up two men and two women from Bray at around closing time o’clock.  Dropping one of the men off along the way, he continued to Ballybrack trying hard not to listen to the conversation being held between the two girls in the back of the car.

“Why?”  I asked.  ”What were they talking about?”

“Nothing much, it was just riddled with curses but… I know some blokes who find cursing women repulsive and I never understood why until now.  It was trashy, really crude.”

“Oh.  Carry on.”

“Then she got her tits out.”

Apparently the loudest of the two women, who happened to be the girlfriend of the remaining bloke in the car, opened her top for the world to see.  TAT swears his eyes were on the road but I’m dubious.

Then, she began to appeal to TAT with ‘this really annoying whiny scumbag voice’ to stop somewhere so that she could pee.  He did - he stopped at a perfect spot on the road adjoining a small green area protected by bushes, and pointed her towards them.  Did she use them?  Did she fuck.  She opened her door, squatted by the rear tyre on a busy road, and splashed her pints back home right there in front of him.  

When TAT finally pulled up outside the house, the same girl got out of the car, crawled about on the pavement for a bit while she got her co-ordination back and then stumbled to the front of the car where she turned around, bent over and lifted her dress over her head, revealing every last detailed orifice.  She then re-robed, and as she was laughing and walking through her front gate, she yelled back at TAT;

“So do you want to come in for yer hole?”

I dropped my fork when he got to that part.  I clapped my hands over my ears and shouted “LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA” for a good five minutes.  The image of this bint saying that to him… my bear, the King to my Queen… I felt like throwing my entire dinner up back onto the plate.  It disturbed me to the core.

Die, evil slapper bitch, DIE

Will this girl cry with shame tomorrow morning when the memories float to the top of her scummy mind?  I doubt it.  Will she do it again?  Most definately… why break old habits?  Bray is full of these women.  They are all over Ireland, giving it away like it was the Ebola virus.  AIDS and STDs are on the rampage but they don’t give a shit.  Babies are born without a snowball’s chance in hell of making it straight, and are found lurking ominously under bridges and on street corners looking dodgy.  Village of the damned.

Won’t they please legalize prostitution?

These people are in serious need of precaution and a cleaner environment… seriously, some pubs are pure cattlemarkets.  The men don’t even bother to dress up, they just leave their farmer’s shirts on.  The women wear seriously ridiculously skimpy clothes (okay, okay, I wore greyhound* skirts and sent the wrong messages entirely too when I was a kid, but I grew out of it!) and rub themselves against anything with a pulse.  So, all a bloke has to do is walk in the door, and SCORE! his beans are cooked.  

Everyone loves sex.  It’s our most basic calling, but it’s still very much in the underworld when it should be out in the open!  Clean, safe, there whenever you need it.  Bring back prostitution and save our small towns. PLEASE.

* 2 inches from the hair 

I meet an abundance of very interesting people in this job.

I met one particular person in the first few days of taxi-driving, someone with whom conversation came easily and made the job a lot easier.  We soon became friends… I give her lifts to work, and she supplies me with the most potent and delicious damn coffee I’ve ever tasted.

We swapped numbers, and enquired about each other’s online status, only to find that I’d found myself a bonafide bebo chick.  I explained what a shallow and anonymous gig this Bebo lark is, and explained the theories of blogging. I reluctantly handed over my blog address which is something I hate doing - I like to keep the virtual and the real totally seperate for embarrassment purposes, but something in me sensed that this girl had something to say.  A genuinely sound person with a dark and twisty edge needed a blog of her own, don’t you think?

So, I turned her.  I bit and infected a civilian and now her thoughts are immortal.  (Bwah hah hah hah)

Without further anything else, I introduce you to:

Vagab0ndage

Welcome to the blogosphere, Vicky!

For some reason, other taxi drivers on the rank at the Dart station find me very amusing.  They like to stand in groups and watch me parallel park which fucks up my concentration and gives me the shakes and ultimately leads to embarrassment.  They give me occasional lectures about smoking in my car (technically the cigarette is outside!) and tell me my brake lights need work with much nudging.  It’s definitely not a place for a lady.

That’s why today I was extremely excited to find the rank deserted.  I pulled up first in the queue and seconds later my rear door opened, but when I turned around, there was nobody there.  My rear view mirror told me that there were two little old dears hobbling towards my car however, one supporting the other like best friends. 

They were very happy to see me, being that they’d just been told by another cab company that they’d have to wait for 25 minutes in the pissing rain for another taxi. 

“Ooooh!!  A lady driver!!!  How nice.” the lady in the backseat exclaimed as she fought her stubborn legs into the car.  I get this a lot, it’s a nice buzz.  The other lady plopped herself in to the seat beside me with no effort at all.

“Right.” says she.  “We want to go to Monkstown, and then on into Dublin.”

“Certainly, ladies.”  *WOO-HOO!!!* I thought inside my little head.  Having just come back from the airport, I felt rich.  Sundays are good days for me.

I stuck on some music from the ‘Classycal’ folder on my SatNav and took off.  The lady beside me was quite attractive with her hair-mac off… she wore a bronze bob and posh sunglasses with sparkly flowery stuff on the sides and had on her Sunday best.  She prompted me for personal information which I always give out far too freely and we complained about the weather, all the way into Monkstown.

We pulled up outside an old Georgian house, and I helped the back-seat lady to her feet.  I offered to help her across the road and up the steps (heavily prompted by front-seat lady) but to no avail… she got quite annoyed and said “don’t mind her, I’m fine!  She’s always babying me!” then waved at me and headed off.

Then there were two. 

There was some silence, then…

“Ahh lookit, I’m nearly falling asleep here, have you any dacent music?”

“Sure!!!”  I racked my brains, and waited for a stop-light.  I then began to scroll down the music folder and play snippets of songs for her approval.  Paul Simon?  No.  The Waifs?  No.  Blind Melon?  No.  I cycled through until she stopped me, at Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun.

“I love his voice!  Yes I like this, keep this on.”

I was confused.  Time passed.  To make conversation, I mumbled something like;

“It’s lovely of you to have such concern for a friend, you’re a credit to her.”

“She’s my little sister, sure I worry about her… there were eleven of us to start with, but there aren’t many of us left.”

Now I’m really confused.  I begin to wonder if the lady in my car isn’t extracting the urine.  The lady we’d just dropped off had to be at least 85 years of age, but I couldn’t ask the question.  I knew she was itching to tell me anyway, which she was.

“I’m in my ninety-second year” she said with a grin.

Now, there aren’t many statements that will warrant my taking my eyes off the road for more than two seconds, but this one was an exception.

“Fu… I mean… You can’t be serious?!?!”  I normally hate the ‘guess how old I am!!!’ statement from a fellow female.  It’s a deliberate fish, but this one warranted true amazement. 

“What’s your secret?”

She giggled, and said “I have a good life. I’m well travelled, and I smoke 20 a day.”

“Fair play!!!” I stated. “Where have you been?”

“Everywhere… Germany, France, America, Mexico, Brazil, last year I went to Amsterdam and it was really very excellent indeed!”

“I’m sure it was!”

“The only places I haven’t been yet are Australia and China.  Sure there’s plenty of time for that yet, I suppose.”

Ninety one years old!!!

I was unable to say another word for the rest of the journey, the woman had me speechless.  I dropped her off at her batchelor-ette pad and thanked her for her generous tip as she walked away.  She has made me re-think old age completely, blown my pre-conceived ideas right out.  Maybe I won’t bugger off to Africa where I’ll no longer be a pain in the ass to anybody!  Maybe I’ll follow the advice in a poem my mum told me last week: 

When I am old I will wear purple. 

Yeah!!!  I’m gonna live it up!!!  I’m gonna have impressive stories to tell taxi drivers when I’m 91 years old coming home from the pub too, and demand that they play The Beastie Boys while we talk.

I officially, from this moment on, do not want to hear anybody complain about being old, because you’re not.  When you’re 93, come back and talk to me, then I’ll listen.  Right now, I’m well impressed.

I believe that if you give respect, most of the time you’ll get it back, hopefully with tips!  I’m trying to teach this to my kids but there’s no way to explain this in pre-schoolspeak, so I lead by example.

The thing is, I’m having problems.  I came home after a work shift recently, exclaiming that men don’t like to be called ‘Sir’ anymore.

“You call them Sir?!” Xboxboy seemed more than surprised.

“Yes, if I don’t know their name, I’ll call them Sir.  Not all the time, just sometimes.”

“But you’re not below them!!!  Never call anybody Sir… it’s demeaning to everybody!”

“Eh?”

I don’t understand this, but it’s true.  Also, instead of calling my mechanic ‘Bert’, a few weeks ago I called him ‘Mr. Byrne’, and he was horrified.   He instantly exclaimed “Jeeeeesus stop!  Mr. Byrne is my father’s name!”.  This is a strangely common occurance among men of all ages… they evade chivalry as though it were an insult.  Did I miss something?

Can somebody please explain to me why ‘Chivalry is dead’, or ‘So-and-so is the last true gentleman’, or ‘Kids have no respect for their elders these days’ are all such common gripes of adults today when all they need to do is accept a bit of respect?

My kid is watching me and learning that the word ‘Sir’ evokes a similar reaction to the word ‘Shit’.  Such surprise and chastisement her mother gets!  Better not do that so.

So what do I do now?