A few months ago, I took a black cab as I sometimes do, and told the driver ‘Kings Cross’. The cab started going, and he seems to be heading the wrong way, but I let him go, thinking he knows a better route as cabbies sometime do.
After a while I realise that we are going further and further away from Kings Cross. At this point I tell the cabbie ‘Are you sure you know the way to Kings Cross?’ (an odd question to ask a London cabbie …). The guy says ‘Kings Cross? Sorry mate, I though you said Finchley Road’. I’m thinking to myself in which language do they sound similar? Anyway he was very apologetic and offered to reset the meter. He then sped up Finchley Road looking for a place to do U-turn. Feeling very silly about all this, he also offered me his Sun newspaper presumably as some sort of good will gesture.
So there I was at the back of the cab reading the Sun (guess which page?), when the guy slams the brakes in panic. While he was speeding up the congested road, the car in front of him stopped and he managed to pull to a halt less than an inch from the rear bumper.
The problem is that reading the newspaper I was totally unprepared, and the rear seat in the old black cabs is wide and made of slippery plastic, so I flew forward and crashed on the barrier. I sort of half swung while flying so actually crashed with my shoulder ahead and the rest of me toppling over.
The driver then went red in the face and mumbled something about how I must think this is a taxi ride from hell (well he was right about that), kept apologising all the way and finally dropped me off at Kings Cross. And charged me the full amount, though needless to say I left no tip.
The shoulder was no laughing matter – it was soar for a couple of weeks and I couldn’t really use the arm properly, though it recovered eventually.