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.
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