Pages

Monday, 15 July 2013

Hammy.




A small diminutive man. Drunk, happy and full of things to say, I cannot understand a single word so I nod an awful lot. He wears a tartan cap with a bright red bobble on top.  He is Scottish and sees the cultural irony in his choice of headwear. Worried that my constant nodding to his indecipherable drivel will turn into a twitch, I then decide to ‘hmm’ agreeingly. We arrive, he pays me in 2p and 20p pieces and I am now wondering should I reinforce the floor beneath my bed where my change bucket lives. He finally decides to leave the cab, his face bright red with joy matching his bobble on his cap. He stops, bellows something to me in drunk Glaswegian, opens his yellow polystyrene box of steaming hot fatty kebab meat, grabs a large handful of what scientists are still deciding whether it is meat at all and deposits it onto my instrument cowling right in front of me. The grease is hot and is already running down my leg and to my brogues that I dutifully polish every day. He is tearful at his bountiful generosity as he slaps the same greasy hand onto my shoulder and gives it a squeeze as he gets out, wobbles and falls into a bush. This was my tip. I drove home open mouthed, incredulous and in shock to wash and change. Took an hour to get the grease out of the carpet in the cab. AN HOUR.