And talking of taxi drivers, did I tell you of the time I was sitting in a taxi at the lights in Constitution Square? I was anxious. Late for a meeting and the superannuated driver didn’t seem to have gauged my mood. The large, elderly Mercedes was in as rotten a condition as its owner and the smell and stains of cigarettes permeated the animate and inanimate surroundings.
No sooner had we stopped at the lights than a far stronger odour made its presence felt. Petrol. Where was it coming from? I opened the door and quickly discovered. There it was. A river, no, a torrent of petrol spewing from underneath the car. I leapt out unable to avoid petrol on my shoes. So too, from the other side, did the driver, fearful of losing his
“Benzina” I shouted as I leapt into a new, black Mercedes with the Hyatt Hotel logo on the side. The driver knew me. Still waving his fist and ignoring the flow as we sped away, the driver got back into his taxi set off in pursuit. How far he managed to get before he emptied his tank or before a lighted fag was thrown his way, I have no idea. The new Merc far outdistanced the older. I didn’t read of a taxi immolating. Did anyone, I wonder?
But, and the question must be raised in the light of Monday`s news, if this is the sort of fellow who is now offering psychotherapy, what calibre of advice can it be?
By the way, I was wrong. There will be a Mozart Festival but I won`t be going. The last time I went I saw Cosi. Horrible. Never to be repeated.