A steady stream of red trails meander off to my left, intertwining occasionally with the white eyed snake that seems to chase but never catch. There can be no more welcome sight though, than that familiar orange glow. The coachman of old, serving only to safely deposit you at or as close to your door as possible.
Why do we feel as though the cab driver would be interested in our entire life’s experience up until the point of our embarking ? Either this, or we are faced with feeling obliged to say something, anything – ” Been busy mate ?”.
In a City that never sleeps, where people and time move through and carry each other to nowhere in particular, it is these strangely comforting four-wheeled rodents, scuttling about and down all of the rat runs that move the most. Everywhere when you don’t need them, gone from sight when you do.
Please do pay the ferry man, forgive him the “scenic route”, he knows you know the way.
“Are you for Jones mate ?”. “No, Clarkson lad !”.
We may never guess who he had in the back the other day …