Last night I arrived to spent the weekend with my eighty-eight year old father.
Bringing me up to speed with what he had been doing this week, he recounted his experience of standing on the pavement, attempting to hail a taxi cab on the main road at Notting Hill Gate.
After some time a taxi eventually swung in and stopped to pick him up, but not before it had been badly ‘cut up’ by another car in a demonstration of desperately bad and inconsiderate urban driving.
Having indicated where he wished to be taken, my father climbed with difficulty inside and flopped onto the back seat. He then gestured towards the errant vehicle, now disappearing into the distance, and added:
“You should have told that bastard to fuck off …”
“Don’t worry about that, Sir,” responded the middle-aged Cockney taxi driver, “… I already did!”