meish dot org: life, unfolding

It’s late and dark and chilly, and I’m waiting on the street for a vacant cab to come along.

The pub doors open and a small, jovial huddle pours out onto the street, and assumes a position on the kerb, half a block downstream of me. They similarly scour the oncoming traffic for an orange light.

After a minute or so of unsuccessfully flagging occupied cabs and seeing nothing of use, one of the group spots me, whispers to the others and then, en masse, the shuffle past me, nonchalantly, to casually take a kerbside position a respectable distance – a dozen yards, perhaps – on the other side of me.

Upstream of me.

The twunts.

Now, unless I enact a similar leapfrogging procedure, I’m suddenly at a disadvantage, cab-wise. They haven’t stolen my cab: they’ve stolen my potential cab, which is way more irritating, if you ask me.

I’m just saying, there ought to be a law.

And in the absence of a law, I hope that they do indeed get the first cab which comes along and that the driver is a one-eyed bigoted, outspoken, sociopath with few driving skills and a particularly niffy flatulence problem, who just had a kebab-shop load of stagnighters in the back, one of whom might have had a little accident in the darkest corner of the seat, which may not come to light until a work colleague walks past a jacket belonging to one of the cab predators, gags, boggles and demands to know who’s been practising unholy acts with decaying vermin. Furthermore, I hope that the cab driver has no GPS and a stubborn belief that he and The Knowledge are a lot better acquainted than they actually are, and he doesn’t believe in reading maps or taking directions from people in he back seat either, in much the same way as some people don’t believe in common courtesy, so they end up doing endless circuits of the Kingston one-way system. Oh, and he’s run out of change, too.

Karma’s a bitch.