No, not the film.
We’re back home again after our month in the country. The first leg of the journey was courtesy of The Reading Taxi Driver. I may be unfair here, but I’m fairly taken by a taxi driver who has a book sitting close by in her taxi, for those dull waits. It beats The Sun or Stockport Express. This time she’s reading Jodi Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper, albeit in Swedish, which led to some deep discussion of difficult family decisions and relationships.
Unlike those idiots who drive their taxi with one hand on the mobile phone and the other occasionally taking notes (!), I’m fairly sure Picoult only gets aired when the driver isn’t driving.
I can’t remember what she was reading last time, but she was reading. Because we have been driven by her before. I knew I recognised her, but can’t remember one ride from another. They sort of blur. She was able to tell me, however. We were going to Helsinborg to meet an author. Well, we weren’t. We were going to Lund to meet Sonya Hartnett, last May. So a few miles further south, but close enough.
I suppose I’m down on a short list of unusual taxi ridees, if there is such a word. A witch not on a broomstick is certainly a sight to behold. This driver not only reads, and remembers well, but she is both kind and helpful. Daughter needed to make a quick detour to the bank, so was dropped right outside said bank, on a street you can’t normally drive along. The driver also felt we had paid enough, so switched the meter off before the drop. At the station, where I was temporarily lumbered with two suitcases, she just locked her taxi and carried one case herself, all the way into the waiting room.
That will simply never happen again.