Indian Summer

We’re in the middle of an Indian summer here in London and it’s too hot to do anything. With no aircon in my cab it has all suddenly become too much for me. The World Cup (which one I hear you ask, there is only one World Cup!) is on at the moment so I find myself watching that instead of working. Result? Bank balance suffers. England won their first game 1–0 but made hard work of it. We have an easier (on paper) game on Thursday which should see us progress to the next round, fingers crossed.

I managed to purchase a refurbished replacement Palm for the one I had stolen last week and I am sitting here waiting for DHL to deliver it. They have a tracking function on their website and it says it’s with the courier at the moment but no delivery time. We’ve all waited in for a delivery and without a time it could mean a whole day is lost although I have been pottering about this morning clearing all the coke cans and pizza boxes from last night's WWE event that saw my two sons and their two cousins glued to the TV.

I have actually been doing some work and even with the heat it’s still been busy out there. Again, there hasn’t been much out of the ordinary to report other than people moaning about the cab fare or which route I was taking.

I did come across a strange occurrence last night whilst driving west on Fulham Road. At the junction with Munster Road I came across a bunch of drunk Aussies playing Rugby.
They were throwing the ball to one another American Football style and hitting cars in the process prompting a wave of horn blasts from irate drivers at all four road junctions. My passenger just happened to be Australian and found the whole thing hilarious and even encouraged the guys as we drove past. When I dropped her off and returned the same way they were still at it and one motorist had got out of his car to have a go at them. Summer madness.

My final job last night saw me enter Victoria Station where there was a long queue of people as on most Sunday nights. A youngish guy with an iPod was to be my fare. He asked me how much it would be to go to Seven Sisters in North London. I said around the thirty-pound mark. He thought about it for a few seconds then said lets go. I didn’t like the look of him so I said I’d need the thirty up front. “Don’t you trust me?” he said. “Just covering myself mate, d’you want it or not?” I replied acting tough. He took out his wallet and handed over the thirty pounds and off we went. Him listening to his iPod and me listening to Coldplay performing live at this weekends Isle of Wight Festival on Virgin Radio. I never looked round once the whole way there until I pulled up outside Seven Sisters Underground Station. He was spark-out. I had to shout at him about three times to wake him. It took him a few minutes to realise what planet he was on then another one to realise what area he was in. When I pointed out the station the recognition was complete. He then looked at the meter (£29.80, not a bad estimate) and asked for the 20p change. Well I totally expected that from someone like that but was glad I’d taken the money first as he definitely would have been trouble.