I have been to a preliminary meeting-before-a-meeting as a preparation for our chinwag with our beloved leaders next week.
It appears that eight taxi drivers from across the nation have been selected to explain to the Government’s cross-party Transport Committee what impact Uber is having on our daily lives. I suspect they chose the most noisily vocal, in which case it does not exactly surprise me that I have qualified. I am not prone to remaining silent when a topic has generated my wrath, and regular readers might recall that Uber has most certainly managed to do that.
We have been sent a list of eight questions that the Transport Committee wants answered, and the chap in charge today, who appeared to be the most junior of civil servants, assured us that we could all talk as much as we liked, that the meeting was scheduled to last for two and a half hours so there would be plenty of time.
We all smirked at this information. Quite clearly he has never met any taxi drivers. Looking round at the assembled faces, who were as piratical a gathering as anybody might wish to see anywhere, we all knew that any one of us would be more than capable of filling the entire two and a half hours all by ourselves. Taxi drivers can do talking, especially on a theme which is as dear to their hearts as the wickedness of Uber.
I suggested that we all send our answers in writing as well, because the chance of all of us getting everything heard that we are intending to say, is pretty close to none at all.
I am looking forward to it. It will make a very welcome change from worrying about Advent calendars, which should all have gone by then in any case.
I am painting the very last two now, not now as we speak, obviously, since I am on the taxi rank, but it has occupied my afternoon.
Jack is going to take the calendars for Lucy and himself, and for my mother, home with him, which will save me twenty quid on postage. He arrived this afternoon and dashed out to carry on fixing Elspeth’s minibuses. He is staying for the weekend in the hope of bashing them back together into a sufficient state for her to buzz off on her Christmas holidays with a clear conscience, after which he will disappear back down the motorway, carrying my newly-cleared conscience with him.
Of course my school friend was still here when we got up this morning, and the day started with a wonderfully laid-back coffee and chat next to the fire. It was pouring with rain outside, so I was not exactly leaping from my seat with anticipation at the prospect of my dog walk, and we sat peacefully contemplating our old age together, there can be no more contented feeling.
The contentment is being helped along by the wonderful event of my migraine disappearing. This has left me with a mildly fuzzy state of euphoria all day, which often happens at the end of such a terrible headache, it is my body’s apology for its days of unmerciful savagery. I have drifted around immersed in a bath of deep contentment, humming to myself and thinking how much I loved my house, my life, my family and even the dogs.
It has been a very happy day. Once my friend had gone I took the dogs out over the fell and marvelled that the rain ceased for the entire duration of the walk, restarting the moment I got back into the taxi at the end, tingling and windswept, but dry, as if the Weather Gods themselves had taken pity on me. I made my taxi picnic and hung the washing and painted the calendars and listened to Jack telling me about the gas struts he had been replacing, all with a sensation of untroubled peacefulness.
It has been such a joyful feeling that it was almost worth the headache.
Almost.
