A taxi ride babe

Mostly, when I hop in a taxi the driver will grunt at me until he works out where I want to go or at a stretch we might discuss the weather.  I’m OK with that ’cause I’m not big on small talk.

The other day I got into a taxi and an altogether different kind of taxi driver asked me, “We’re we going today babe?”  To which I replied, “Such and Such street in the city.”  Then he said, “Oh! Such and Such street.  Is that the original Such and Such street?  Or is that Such and Such street in Sydney?”  And I replied, “Ummm, in Sydney?”  Then he proceeded to tell me that the original street was in Dublin, which is his home town, though he was “born in a hostel somewhere else, but that’s another story.”  And yeah babe, he thought we should “go to Dublin today, via India yeah, that’d be great, then Iran, yeah, and Turkey.  It’d be a ride baby.”

Just before getting in that taxi, I had escaped an appointment with our mortgage broker after I’d convinced him that I didn’t want to be late for work, and that I only had time to sign stuff and not time to listen to him rehash what we’d already gone over with our solicitor at a much more cracking and satisfying pace, and even if he let me go right now I would still be late for work, damn him.  So, I was slow to take in this rather interesting offer of a side trip to Dublin.  Actually I was still a little stuck on being called babe, and girly.  I distinctly remember him calling me girly.  “Girly, it’d take a while to get there, and it would cost more than a trip to the city, but it’d be a great ride.”

Sadly, I was too cynical and practical to take him up on his offer and as we drove up to my street he sighed and said, “Well, it’s back to the coal face for you little girly… better get out your pick and shovel and get back to it.”