Swedish Girl In London

London Life: Bright Lights, Big City. Now what's on TV?

Monday, February 27, 2006

Taxi!

Your average night-on-the-razz in London? It is a pretty hallucinatory trek through some parallel universe, sound-tracked by outlandish music and barely contained hostility. Now, I’m not talking about any old Magic Mushroom-ride through the city’s groove emporia. I am talking mini-cab, yeah?

Last week, it seemed like I was forever tumbling out of various tapas-bars and wannabe cocktail lounges, in what we will call an “effervescent mood”. (After all, it is my blog and I can call it what I like.)

The subsequent taxi journeys all took on an otherworldly dimension of their own.

They started off in wild optimism, as I gave the taxi-driver my address, although deep down I knew that he would never have heard of it, or indeed any of the landmarks within a five-mile radius of it.

Once the ball-park geographic location of choice had been established (East London), the driver would get a far-off look in his eye, like I had just suggested a barefoot pilgrimage to some distant shrine in the Burmese jungle, possibly involving navigation by star-light.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” hesitated Friday’s driver, who didn’t like reggae – he loved it.
“Ah, come on,” I goaded effervescently*. “It’s just around the corner!”

We then departed on a long journey. At first, there was a certain sense of complicity between Reggae Lover and myself. We were travellers, going we knew not where, we knew not how, and that made us a unit. But as the metre kept ticking and we got nowhere nearer our destination, cracks were beginning to show in our relationship.

To my credit, I wasn’t just sitting there. I helped Reggae Lover out by peering out of the window and making suggestions like “you could take off to the left here, if only the Thames weren’t there”.

At times, brief glimpses of the top of our building would sail up like a fata morgana, and I would joyfully shout out: “Just drive straight on now!” Reggae Lover greeted these moments with suspicion, and was proved right when different road-works pushed us off our course again.

When at last we, by some unexpected turn, arrived at my door, the embers of our friendship were not so much dying as lying on lit-de-parade. I made a joke about him never finding his way back, but we both knew that it was just for show.

“Drive straight on, my arse”, he muttered as I closed the door.
“I don’t like reggae - I hate it,” I muttered as I closed the door.

*Yes, I’m sticking to my guns on the effervescent issue.

7 Comments:

At 10:22 PM, Blogger Helga von porno said...

Yes, I know what you mean, cycling through London can be hair raising too, I had to break two fingers of the left hand of some sinister youth who tried to pull me off my bike. I managed to burst one eyeball with my knuckle before he ran off

 
At 10:45 PM, Blogger Steve said...

Heh . . . good story.

I dread to think how much it cost you though!

 
At 8:48 AM, Blogger Helen said...

Not quite the same as jumping ito a plush Mercedes Swedish taxi then!! Helen

 
At 4:30 AM, Blogger Zen Wizard said...

Even Barrington Levy?

He rules, dude!

 
At 8:04 AM, Blogger Kay Richardson said...

Yo! Love the blog. Yeah.

 
At 3:46 AM, Anonymous south american girl said...

Well, at least you got home safe and sound, didn't you?

 
At 7:31 AM, Blogger DENZIL said...

Interesting story in the backdrop of London....

 

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home