Cheap Taxi Big Tip

Here we are again. Another trip away. One trip ends, a brief period of less stress follows, then another trip pops up. So be it. What the hell. They'll be cigarettes. But it still doesn't get rid of that stretching sensation in my stomach, like being taken away from somewhere you're supposed to be. A giraffe on the tube. After-dinner sprouts. It doesnt seem right.

So a late trip home from Tooting Bec. Outside Tooting Bec best non-corner corner shop there was a lot of noise tonight. Some towns boast of being 24 hour places. London isn't. Neither is Las Vegas for that matter (no Bran Flakes beyond 1am), but Tooting Bec at least has a go.

And a late finish brings up that agonising decision. No night bus, so either a 30 minute walk or a taxi home. I've just been given a payrise. Taxi it was.

Like walking was ever an option. And the taxi company know me by sight now. The driver said hello and set off driving without instruction tonight. When I thought he was about to miss the turning I spoke out. He seemed dissapointed I'd interrupted. Then, so did I. Damn. And the fare was a quid less than it ever has been before. I tipped big.

Where was I? Yes, away again. And I'm feeling too splendid for any real kind of blog post. The start-middle-end type. And this isn't misery, it's love sickness. And if that's what it is I can't feel too bad.