As a rule I avoid getting drawn into conversation with taxi drivers. But, a little like the Big Mac, occasionally you stumble into one only immediately to regret it. I was plunged into deep depression in the course of a short drive from Grosvenor Place to Leadenhall Street. My driver first yelled abuse at someone dilly dallying across a pedestrian crossing and then had a tilt at the monarchy as we passed Buckingham Palace. I put him right on that, but by this time we were on a slippery slope. A sorry life story poured forth involving, if memory serves me, ungrateful children, wackie backie, Ken Livingstone (of course), Christmas blues oh and gambling. I resisted telling him there was a possible explanation for the behaviour of his recalcitrant eldest daughter when he revealed that he had taken £1,800 out of her bank account and lost it all on the roulette table.
Talking of eldest daughters, guess who is off to Argentina on Monday morning. If it wasn’t for the fact that I am insanely jealous, it really doesn’t bear thinking about. Goodness only knows how this latest episode is going to develop. Hen is off on a school polo trip. In one of her occasional attempts to reassure me that a sense of responsibility had taken grip she rang me this morning with exciting news - as she described it - of her exam results. “I’ve done really well actually Daddy.” 27% in physics, 32% in biology and 24% in chemistry were mere blips. The big event was 73% in drama. Now, why doesn’t that surprise me one jot.
No comments:
Post a Comment