My local cab firm has gone global. Its drivers are now so fantastically cosmopolitan they no longer speak any English or know anything at all about Britain. The situation reached crisis point the other night.
‘Royal Opera House,’ I kept saying, very slowly. ‘Royal …Opera …House.’
‘Roya’ Oppa How?’ said the minicab driver.
‘No. Listen. Ro …yal …Op …er …a House. It’s a big building with opera inside it.’
He furrowed his brow. ‘Raya Open Horse?’
‘Fine, just drive, we’ll work it out when we get near.’
‘Poss Cod,’ he said, looking panic-stricken.
‘WC2,’ I said. He put WC2 into his sat nav but of course that only narrowed it down to 300 possible destinations.
‘Please,’ I said, ‘I show you. We go. Drive.’
‘Coven’ Gaaaarden?’ he said, staring manically at his TomTom.
‘Yes, yes, good,’ I said. ‘I like. Is good. Cov …ent …Gaaaaar …den!’ This seemed to soothe him and he started to drive. ‘Sorry about this,’ I said, laughing, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Wah?’ he shouted, turning round so that the car swerved all over the road.
‘Nothing, don’t worry. Keep driving.’
‘WAH?’
‘Go, go! Is good!’
‘I go,’ he said, looking horribly determined.
Thanks to the sat nav, we made it to Covent Garden and I began to feel hopeful as I saw the top of the Opera House roof loom into view. But we sped past and turned down a side street. ‘There,’ I said. ‘WAH!’ he shouted, as the car swerved. I decided to keep quiet on the basis that I didn’t have any way of instructing him to turn round using the words ‘Is good’ and ‘Go!’. Maybe he would stop soon. Of course he didn’t.
He drove on until he reached the side entrance to Covent Garden market, then he parked. ‘Coven’ GaaaaardEN!’ he shouted, jabbing at the window. ‘OUT!’ I suppose I could have surrendered at this point. But it was raining. I surveyed the streets awash with puddles, my fancy dress and four-inch stilettos. All the other awards ceremony guests were pulling up at the Opera House in limos, camera bulbs flashing, concièrges ushering them in.
And here was I, being shouted at in a battered Toyota by a big bearded man who last week was living under the threat of death, torture or starvation, and who now, understandably, saw no challenge in standing up to a girl in a pink dress who didn’t want to get her feet wet. Of course, this was all very good for my ego and for putting things in perspective. This man had probably suffered more than I ever would. But I still didn’t want to look like a total drowned rat next to Kylie Minogue.
‘Kylie! Kylie? Can’t get you outta my head …’ I sang. Surely he had heard of Kylie.
‘Out!’ he shouted. Obviously they don’t have Kylie in places where they threaten you with torture or starvation and you have to flee to a country of easy asylum and benefits where a conveniently exploitative taxi firm owner will stick you straight into a minicab the day after you come off the back of the lorry on the Eurostar.
‘Out!’ he shouted, really quite aggressively now. ‘OUT!’ Then he started gabbling really fast in his mother tongue in that agitated way people who are frightened and disorientated have when they are under threat.
I got my guilt-edged invitation out of my bag and waved it at him. ‘Nice party! Good! Bow Street! Sat nav!’
This seemed to calm him down. He punched Bow Street into his TomTom and after a bit of grumbling we set off. It took him 15 minutes to retrace the 200 or so yards we had strayed from the Opera House. I made sure we pulled up well short of the red carpet because he was looking pretty wild-eyed and confused.
As the car slowed, I shoved a £20 note at him, leapt out and ran for it. I skidded down the red carpet past Louise Redknapp who had just stepped elegantly out of her limo and was posing for pictures. ‘Invite!’ barked a woman in black trained to look out for interlopers as I sped past. I threw the big thick card at her and ran inside. I didn’t stop until I got inside the lift where Jamie Redknapp was waiting for his wife to finish her photocall.
‘How are you?’ he said politely, as I pulled my skirt back down from the rather outré position it had become lodged in during my mad dash and tried to smooth down my wild hair.
‘Oh, my god, you would not believe the journey I’ve had …’ He nodded sympathetically and listened very attentively to the whole sorry saga. But the look on his face said he hadn’t taken a minicab from Balham in a while.
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