Not that I'm famed for my affable nature, but there is one twisted breed of human that I truly cannot stand.... The taxi man. (I specify 'man' because I have only ever had two lady drivers and both were blissfully silent - and therefore, lovely).
In case you think me one-sided, I did used to also hate their female counterparts, the hairdressers. Luckily, I've since discovered a massively overpriced and aggressive stylist who only speaks to me in clipped Polish to humiliate me over the state of my hair. I love her.
I can grind my teeth and listen to thinly disguised racism, regulatory-induced self pity and even batted away blatant nosiness (I've been asked everything from how much I paid for my house to if I was laid the night before -needless to say I made a swift exit from that cab).
Yesterday, however, was a new low.
Already not in great form, I hopped in a taxi to take me to a photo shoot in Finglas. I should have spotted the number one sign of the crazies, the twitch. Luckily, I was in the backseat and avoided the wild eyed stare.
He tried to laser-eye me through the rear view mirror, but I've been in a cab or two before.
However, this guy was a pro.
No amount of 'mmm hmmm' answers could put him off his diatribe. He muttered about Georgian doors, shouted about "the old village" and thought a woman on a bike was hilarious. I cowered in the back seat, shades on as a pathetic defense against his madness, and prayed for the journey to end. I even tried battling my inner politeness and outright ignoring him (hard thing when you're in a confined space with a mentaller), but to no avail. I was seconds away from writing SOS messages and flinging them out the window when we arrived. The streets of gangster riddled Dublin have never seemed so welcoming; I almost kissed the path that I alighted to.
Only to remember that I also had to get a taxi back home...