Cablog

Happy

There's a pretty good vibe around town since I returned on Tuesday and a marked difference to the pre-Christmas tension of last week. People are just so happy and relaxed after the big festive let-down.

This and the sense of anticipation, amongst tourists especially, ahead of tonight's celebrations is intoxicating and there's no better place to be at this time of year.

One fare in particular last night stood out for the sheer scale of their visit, indeed, their life. I picked up the retired couple here after a five hour and fourteen course meal, each with accompanying wines. Needless to say they were very happy.

I delivered them here where they were staying for a few nights after arriving from overseas. Though on Friday their apartment arrives, where they reside eight months of the year. Otherwise, they spend the remainder of the year at their beach house here. And tonight, New Years Eve, they will be celebrating here.

Greetings

This week a young woman working in child care travelled home from a staff Christmas party in the city.

Along with the astounding news that she was required to teach toddlers and preschoolers about gravity, and be tested on her effectiveness as a ‘teacher’, she mentioned that at least their centre observed a conventional Christmas involving Santa Claus and carols for the children.

According to my passenger political correctness had gone too far and she was relieved to see a gradual return to the traditional celebrations of our predominately Christian country. I agreed.

On a related note there’s an understandable resistance to the recent trend of offering non-specific salutations at this time of year. Equally, however, there’s no escaping the fact that occasionally generic greetings are more appropriate.

For example, twice this month I have wished ‘happy holidays’ to devout Muslims with whom I deal professionally: a real estate agent and my website re-designer. To consciously do otherwise would have been insensitive, at best.

That said, I would now like to wish Cablog readers a Merry Christmas and safe holiday, plus offer my warm thanks for your patronage throughout the year. Much appreciated.

Divorce

Late last night a bloke fell into the cab and announced with a certain satisfaction, “Driver, I’ve just had a rub 'n tug.” This was no surprise as cabbies have a well developed olfactory sense.

We can distinguish between gym sweat and sex sweat, identify hydroponic pot within seconds (and they reckon drug dogs are smart), or warn whether the passenger has tooth rot or gut cancer.

In this case it was the over-powering smell of cheap liquid soap found in brothels which betrayed my contented fare. Thus I responded, “Yeah, I know. It really stinks.”

This throwaway remark startled him. “Oh, shit, really? Is it that bad?” When I confirmed the worst he explained how he’d lashed out and hired two girls with a complimentary bottle of cheap champagne.

He continued, “But I used extra lotion in the shower to get rid of the massage oil so the missus wouldn’t pick it when I got in. But women know, straight away. What am I going to tell her?”

I advised that he slip quietly into the house and sleep in a spare room. “I can’t,” he groaned. “We’re visiting Sydney and staying at a friend’s house. They don’t have a spare room.”

As the same cheap soap is found in the toilets of gas stations, I suggested he could say he’d had an accident and that was the reason for the awful smell. “Yeah right,” he sneered, “For sure she’s going to believe that I had a full body wash in a servo dunny. Nup, I’m dead. This is divorce.”

I considered that short of offering a lame excuse there was always the truth. Either way it would not help him salvage their Christmas, if not the marriage. So I remained silent.

Some blokes can’t be helped.

Unkind

The other day a cabbie I know asked, “Adrian, why are people so unkind?” As this was delivered in a deadpan parrot-style, I could only laugh, “Mate, it’s Christmas time. Everybody hates us!”

On Wednesday afternoon during an annual appointment with my skin specialist, he mentioned how there was a negative article on cabbies in that day’s paper.

I informed him it was most likely the annual bash-a-cabbie piece where rookie reporters are sicced onto hapless cabbies, an easy target at Christmas during peak demand.

Yet a few weeks ago there was a positive story by News Ltd on a cabbie who every year, of his own volition, decks out his cab with Christmas decorations.

Let’s hope he keeps away from Bankstown...

A bus driver dressed as Santa who was attacked by three Middle Eastern youths said yesterday he was abused because of his Christmas spirit. (Daily Telegraph, Dec 17)

Conversely, here's some good news on Christmas buses. Or how about the 24 hour security guard needed to protect a Christmas tree at the famous El Alamein fountain in Kings Cross. Nice.

Actually, the aforementioned news item was reporting on a national taxi survey conducted by the tourism industry...

Sydney was identified as the least favourite city for catching cabs...

Sheesh, why are people so unkind?

Cycle warrior

Last night I watched a repeat of the BBC show, Grumpy Old Men. The episode covered one of my pet annoyances: the arrogance of people who barge onto pedestrian crossings without first checking for approaching traffic.

Rather than break stride and defer to a stupid car/bus/taxi, these pedestrians prefer risking injury or death. You see, they have rights - the right to act with reckless stupidity.

Tellingly, the frequency of such behaviour increases the closer one is to the city. Here I’m talking about the progressive inner-city, anti-vehicle crowd or, dare I say it, the ‘bikes are better’ brigade.

The previous afternoon in Surry Hills I was travelling along Cleveland Street and slowed to turn into Chalmers Street. Having the green light, no pedestrians and a ‘No Walk’ sign in my favour I was taken by surprise when a cyclist riding at speed along the footpath suddenly careered onto the crossing...

Animals

Taxi drivers automatically develop a thick skin in order to survive the provocations and insults which come with the territory of carting drunks. Those who can't, quit.  

Yet some revilements are so disgusting and vicious they go way beyond ordinary disrespect. Such savage hatefulness suggests a much deeper malaise, an inbuilt sickness of mind which can only be attributed to a culture of barbarism.

At least that’s my conclusion from receiving an insult on the weekend after refusing to hand over my cap to an aggressive and arrogant drunk. When his friends told him to behave, he switched from his mother tongue to English to be sure I got the message...

"I swear to God, I’ll ____ his mother in the ____ then cut her up in front of the family.”

Animals masquerading as humans live amongst us.

Trouble

On Monday night I stopped for a woman walking along the highway in the outer suburbs. She was petite and quiet pretty, aged around forty years old and heading for a local pub.

"I never go out this late,” she said after climbing in the front seat. “In fact I never go out at all because I’ve been married for twenty years to a fireman and raised two kids.”

Okay, I thought, why are you telling me this unsolicited personal information straight up. Sure, she may have had a couple of drinks but I didn’t consider her that drunk.

Next thing she deftly steered the conversation around to sex and when she started touching my arm I was really on my guard. “What’s that hotel down the road like?” I told her it had a reputation as a seedy lap dancing joint with a brothel upstairs.

"I don’t understand how women can do that,” she remarked. “Anyway, thanks for warning me. I guess I’m a bit naive after being married for so long but I just don’t know who to trust.” Her voice trailed off leaving the comment hanging like a bad smell and I silently groaned.

Yet despite the claims of a sheltered life she later disclosed how she worked as a health professional at a private practise in the city. This was a particularly restless soul out on the prowl. Trouble.

After paying the fare she lingered, asking a series of unrelated questions and offering to shake hands at least four times. And each time she maintained the pressure so I needed to gently but firmly extract my hand from increasingly clinging fingers. Yikes!

By then I had the tape recorder operating for one never knew how such encounters end. Finally she requested my taxi number so she could call me later even though I informed her that the network wouldn’t permit personal bookings. Then she was gone.

Poor woman ranks as my second loneliest passenger of the year.

Hot

Early yesterday morning I dropped this young woman at a city hotel.

When I remarked that it's a pity she was staying in town and not going to her home in the western suburbs, as I'd be happy to take her, she interrupted before I could explain how I lived out there and could thence finish my shift with a great fare.

Her sardonic retort was, "Yeah, I bet you would."

Yet one hot model I'd like to take home, purely for lustful reasons is this 2009 Nissan GT-R35 spotted yesterday at Homebush. And someone who was actuallly paid to drive one recently, for a whole week, is notorious Gaia oppressor, Tim Blair, the lucky bastard.

Worthy

TAXI, THE INSIDE STORY is a new book that reveals the unique and untold stories of Victoria’s taxi drivers – as told by taxi drivers.

Taxi, The Inside Story tells the stories of over fifty-five Victorian taxi drivers in words and images. It captures the remarkable journeys each driver goes on when they step behind the wheel.

The book is the centerpiece of an awareness raising campaign called Taxi Project. The project aims to build the pride of taxi drivers, raise public perception regarding the positive contribution drives make to society and raise money for Very Special Kids.

Taxi Project breaks down stereotypes and promotes a postive dialogue between drivers and passengers.

So for an unusual Christmas gift and a contribution to a worthy cause the book can be purchased through the Taxi Project website.

Of grace

Arriving at the Airport on Sunday night, well after the 11pm curfew, I was greeted by a long, snaking queue of weary passengers. Pulling into the last bay I waited as a rank marshal slowly escorted an elderly woman to the cab.

After closing the windows and adjusting the air conditioner to her satisfaction, for the day’s oppressive humidity still lingered, she conveyed heartfelt thanks for the attention.

“That’s just beautiful,” she sighed and closed her eyes to reveal a gratifying smile. It was the same pleasant expression I’d first noticed as she hobbled to the cab, all sweetness and sparkling eyes, signifying one of those joyful souls who genuinely loves life.

For example, at that late hour on a Sunday night many would be aggravated by the heat, frustrated with the delayed flight and long wait for cabs, annoyed watching the 'useless' taxi marshals, blah, blah. Not this girl, she jumped the queue! was a model of grace and positivity.  

"Everyone has been so lovely to me,” she said. “The others let me go to the front of the queue, young people are so wonderful these days.” With that she quietly chuckled, “I guess they pity me.”

She was returning from a weekend visiting family to celebrate her birthday. Just like many young women do every Sunday evening, except this one was aged eighty seven. And still working!

Yet none of those young women in the queue had been forced to flee to the other side of the world as she had, when the Communists invaded Hungary in 1956. She was 32 and just married.

I asked, “Why did you come here rather than go to America?“ “Yes, we could have gone to either country,” she explained, “but we choose to come here. It was much further away from the Communists. But I have no regrets, whatsoever. Australia is such a wonderful country.”

Despite appearing physically frail and shrunken, tiny in the seat beside me, she continually surprised with her zest for life. How she operated a suburban store selling fabrics and soft furnishings, and being a partner in a small business manufacturing these goods.

Even more impressive was her working knowledge of computers, from regularly using email, transmitting images, being a competent Google searcher and Web browser. Rather than shun or bypass modern life she had embraced it with gusto.

So it was little surprise to hear she also drove to work each day. "I've just renewed my license," she proudly stated, referring to the mandatory medical test senior drivers must undergo.

Arriving at her Eastern Suburbs apartment around midnight I remarked that rain was forecast for the following day, perfect weather to stay in bed and recover from her big weekend.

She laughed, “No, I’m working. I’d be bored staying in bed all day, that would be the end of me. Too many of my friends fade away from doing nothing. No, no, darling, working keeps you alive and young.”

That’s the Secret, right there.

After carrying her bag in to the escalator she thanked me and once again marvelled how people are so wonderful that surely they must pity her. So this time I corrected her, “No, no, darling. 'Pity' is without respect and no one could disrespect you.”

Maybe she was just being modest.