I knew it: 2013 would die with a bang. Having gone the way of snooze at the godly hour of eleven fire works woke me at midnight sharp. You have to hand it to the English: It might be raining assorted animals but somehow they will defeat moisture and get fireworks blasting merrily.
Other than that, and I am in prime position on my vantage point (desk running along windowsill in my room with a view) I know I have missed a trick tonight: Taxi drivers must be raking it in. Unfortunately, like prostitution, driving taxis at night takes nerve. I have nerve, I even have muscle, more to the point I do have presence of mind. What I don’t have are eyes in the back of my head. And that is the one thing I find unsettling when contemplating to take up driving unknown quantities from A to B: Your passengers being BEHIND you. Not that I live in New York. Dear dog in heaven. Perish the thought.
I love taxis. I love taxi drivers. The talkative ones. They are mines of information. Currently not able to afford taxis, walking everywhere instead, I will – occasionally – lean into waiting taxis and have a chat. One reminded me doing that I look like a hooker on the prowl. It’s what I like about men: They will tell you – freely – what they wouldn’t like their wives and daughters (and myself) to be doing. And I do take their advice. Even my son who – surely – does think me invincible can’t stand the idea of me being out and about when fog settles densely. Have I ever come to harm? No. And I don’t endeavour to do so now.
Happy New Year, Sweethearts. Beware the offspring of the by now wilted Hound of Baskerville and don’t get lost in the Moors.
PS First, not yet implemented, resolution of the year: I will become my own editor and bleach my prose as I do – mercilessly – that of others.