Twelve miles of indefatigable misery

The taxi-driver wound his window one third of the way down and put a priestlike, confessional ear to the freezing night air. I spoke the name of my village. Twelve miles. Twenty minutes. Forty quid normally, including tip. A decent fare, considering that the vast majority waiting at this railway-station cab rank require only the short ride into town. And yet an agonised grimace contorted his miserable, flabby, unshaved face. After an omnipotent pause, however, it nodded gloomy assent and I walked around the bonnet of the 12-year-old Mondeo and climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Busy?’ I said when we were in motion, to start the conversational ball rolling. He slumped forward on his steering wheel in despair and looked at me as if I was mad asking that on a January midweek night as cold and as wet as this one. ‘Good Christmas?’ I said, trying to force a cheerful word out of the guy.