The view from the Cab.

The view from the cab
Now this story may lose some effect over the Atlantic Ocean, but after reading it I suggest a visit to Goggle Maps and the insertion of the appropriate word will bring clarity to all……. Picked up a beautiful, elegant women the other day at Victoria Station with all her matching luggage with the label ‘M.C’ prominently displayed. “Where we going then M.C?” Says I ingratiating myself as only an old ‘hand’ can do. “The Dorchester please driver.” Comes the reply in an English accent with a slight leaning towards an American pronunciation.
“Lot of traffic between here and there” says I with one eye on the meter. “Might come to a few bob.” I added, seeing £10 on it and we hadn’t gone far. “Where you from anyway?” I asked trying to seem interested, which I have to say I was not. “HAVANT” she says, and now I’m perplexed. Haven’t what I asked myself and swiftly decided that she meant MONEY, so foot down, out the traffic and we arrived in double quick time.
“She aint got no dosh for a tip old son” says I to the porter unloading those stylist cases. “What do you mean cabbie, of course I have money. Here take this £50 note and less of your impudence.”
“Then why did you say that you didn’t have any?” I asked defiantly as she haughtily walked away. “It’s near Portsmouth you twit.” She called over her shoulder as she entered the Hotel……..Funny lot those Americans.


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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