When in Doubt

Ten to six on a Sunday morning. Terminal one, Heathrow. The cabbie held the door open. "Where to, mate?" "Putney", I said, before chipping in, "There are several ways to get there". Immediately I felt like a tit. London taxi drivers rarely need navigational assistance. He looked dead ahead, out of the windscreen. He was a big man, with the air of a retired heavyweight boxer; grizzly bear shoulders, pancake nose, sausage fingers gripping a tiny steering wheel. "Which do you prefer, sir?" "I'm never really sure which is best. What do you reckon?" He turned to face me, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. "'Ammersmif Bridge is the prettiest".

— Filed under Rumination