public transport

I’ve had some strange adventures in the backs of London cabs. Most of you know them already, but I have to admit, I have a particularly benign relationship with semi-public transport (that has manifested itself here in Sri Lanka too where Tamil auto drivers will counsel me on how to deal with the police and take me home and watch until I’ve latched the door, to asking me out for a drink (and offering to pay, natch) to talking about politics across the country). Anyway, this post is to record two adventures in London cabs (this excess of blogging is really to deflect any pangs of missing). And also an incident at Selfridges. As you can tell, I am feeling particularly low.

Where I am the Next Nina Simone

One drunken night, I hailed a cab outside Canary Wharf after post-work drinks, which for some reason went on all night, chiefly because all of us had nothing better to do really. As I get into the cab, (saying the address, Russell Square) the cabbie turns to me and asks,
Cabbie: Were you in Pop Idol love?
Me: Wot? Me? No.
Cabbie: I thought you were (in cockney twang). I thought to myself, as yer got in, that I’ve seen your face before and when I heard your voice, I thought you’d been singing love.
Me: I sing like a donkey. Wasn’t me. And in the shower I sing
Cabbie: I bet you can sing though. I bet you can. You have a lovely voice
Me: How would you know? I’ve only spoken two sentences!
Cabbie: I know these things. I run a recording outfit. We held the World Peace Concert last week, at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I’ve got lots of singers, singing for charity. Go on love, give us a song
Me: what? I cannot, repeat cannot sing
Cabbie: There’s no one else here but me, and we’ve got quite a ride left
Me: Alright, I’ll sing if you sing with me. I ain’t singing alone.
Cabbie: No problem. What you’re singing
Me; (in a fit of despondency), Nina Simone. Wild as the Wind. Do you know it?
Cabbie: Yeah. Lovely song innit. Alright. Whenever you’re ready
Me: (Wailing) Love me, love me, say you do. Let me fly away with you. ….
Cabbie: (joins in). You kiss me, I hear the sound of mandolins
Me: (finish. Silence in the cab).
Cabbie: you have a lovely voice. You should sing the gospel blues, strong black music with heart and character. None of this pop stuff for you. Why don’t you come down to the studio. It’s at the church
Me; (Staring out of the window. ) I reckon I’ll just stick to the day job hon. Even though I hate it. Thanks anyway.
Cabbie: Well here’s my card anyway. Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Liverpool Street, Sunday.


Where I meet ....

Another drunken night (yes I am noticing a trend here), I step out of a club after a night out with a couple of guys and Jules in some club that festered with Russians (this was the night that I met H and then I was rhapsodizing about what a cool classy cat he was until I found out he was a total bore). Hailing cabs desperately on Oxford St/Tottenham Court Road at 4am is quite obviously an exercise in futility (oh how I yearn for those nights when there was no surfeit of friends, things to do, or money and no surfeit of problems that were over-magnified and totally neurotic!). I hailed a cab, and as I crossed the street to get into it, four guys got into it from the other side. I paused in shock! How rude! The cabbie is talking to them wildly to say that I am a girl and I need to get home fast. But they’re like, we’ll drop her off. And the cabdriver finally hangs his head and says to me, get in love, (yes they all call me love. Its an English thing and one I sorely miss) I’ll make sure you get home.

So I get in.

Four American guys all dressed in leather except for one in a shirt look at me.
I sit down on the fold down seat.

Guy 1: So where are you from?
Me; (explain my history)
Guy 2: Who’re you working for now?
Me; Morgan Stanley. Boring American investment bank. Can’t stand the Americans. All they know how to do is fuck things up. Look at your president.
Discussion descends into an arcane political discussion about American politics and the Clintons.
Guy 3: You are one classy dame huh? 23 and you know this shit. Damn, I didn’t know they made them like you anymore
Me: Yeah well.
Me: So what do you guys do?
Guys: (look all around).
Guy 1: Heard of Offspring?
Me: Yeah I think so. Something to do with Rock right? I wouldn’t know
Guy 2: Who do you like?
Me: Chet Baker, Nina Simone. Old stuff.
Guy 3: The lady knows her shit
Guy 4: We just finished taping a session with Channel 4. Pop Quiz live or something.
Me: So you’re really like, a rock band?
Guy 3: Yeah, we’re staying at the Lanesborourgh. Want to come over?
Me: Nah. I need my sleep. Good luck though
Guy 2: Thanks! Great to have met you! Keep it real.

I descend. Was it the alcohol? Unfortunately Offspring doesn’t really matter to me.

Incident at Selfridges.

It’s a week to Christmas. Its 9pm and Selfridges are still open. I’m due to go home in a week and I’m standing on the escalator particularly depressed going from one hall to the next. Behind me an elderly gentleman all wrapped up in a very good quality British overcoat and muffler, with distinguished trimmed white hair coughs. I turn around. He comes up to me, on my step, pauses for a second and delivers the following:
You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. Its’ alive.
I pause and stare in shock. My hair that’s a year late in rebonding and is all over the place? My hair? My secret passion?
And then he says Merry Christmas and walks on.
Thank you I say.
(marry me is what I want to say).

Do you think that they make’em like that anymore?