With my eldest setting his sights on Marxism studies at the University of Banbury, I’ve had to start building up some cash with a second job.
I can’t really follow my perter moonlighting colleagues into picking up shifts at Roxys, the town’s premier gentlemen’s club. Instead I’ve got behind the wheel for Ali’s Cabs, spending three nights a week driving drunken divorcees and their night’s prey home from Chicago’s Wine Bar.
My two jobs aren’t that different. By day I struggle to get information out of unresponsive service users and agencies. By night the challenge is to find out each fare’s home address before they pass out.
On Friday night I turned around to find Tash, a young client of mine, collapsing face down in the back of my cab. This at least meant I knew where to drive. Luckily, any potential embarrassment was avoided as she only managed to open her eyes once during the ride.
Dropping her off, I pulled away in time to see a river of blue vomit pouring down her front door. The next day I drop in to Tash’s. This time it’s her firstborn, Brash, who’s emptying her stomach down the side of her high chair. I suspect that the two commonalities in my life are to remain vomit and unresponsiveness for a while.