I hailed a Nissan Bluebird cab one day and plomped down on the seat. Squelch! I knew the problem. A rubber bung on the metal seatfloor had either perished or come adrift. Water was splashing through and soaking the seat cushion.
Leaving the cab, I told the driver about it. He thanked me, apologised and said he'd deal with it. No problem - I knew how it could happen.
Two weeks later, another cab. Another Bluebird. Same squelch. Same Bluebird. Same driver. I told him to stop, got out, told him why. Thought he'd be speechless with embarrassment. Taxi drivers aren't like that. His turn of phrase is unrepeatable. And they wonder why we don't sympathise with them.
In fairness, it's a few bad eggs. Like the one whom we used - as enthusiastically advised by gardaí and city authorities - to transport the family in for a Christmas Eve wander around the city centre. We got him in Tallaght, a fairly shook Corolla ponging of stale cigarettes and rare aromatics or worse.
Taxi drivers often complain a little. Might be hard not to, what with having to share the roads with us ordinary motorists. Not to mention buses, police cars, trucks, ambulances, forklifts, cyclists and pedestrians.
I mean, the Lord don't make it easy. But this guy? Topics of interest were: the traffic, the weather, the bleedin' car, the bloody Government off on their Christmas jollies while ordinary eejits had to work, the RTÉ Christmas schedule, roadworks everywhere, the lack of concern about the lot of the taximan. A lot you could agree with. Though not out loud. Sometimes it's unwise to encourage.
He finally decanted us on a traffic island in a maelstrom of gridlocked cars. I paid him. "Did you give him a tip?" my better half asked curiously, knowing I usually did.
"Nope. He didn't earn it. Didn't mention the mother-in-law or the junkie brother. Besides, his back seat didn't squelch." That last one was what left her flummoxed.