skyring

It's one of the problems of taxidriving. Junk food.

There's often no time to sit down and eat proper. A pie on the run, a burger and chips. You'll see the late night fast-food vans here and there around the city, and each one will have a following of taxidrivers, security patrols, truckdrivers, drunks, waiting for their fatty, salty, sugary food to be delivered.

I haven't succumbed yet, but each evening, after the rush has died down, there comes a time when my tummy starts to complain that it's empty. It all depends where I am, and sometimes I'll be within a stone's throw of my home, and I'll wander in and see if there's anything left over from the family dinner.

Other times, it's a matter of convenience, and though I usually choose Subway, with a high fresh vegetable component, sometimes it's the golden arches, or the Southern colonel.

And a little afterwards, one of the drawbacks of being confined in a small space with one or two strangers becomes apparent. Here's a poem I wrote some time back, which illustrates the problem:

Sunday Morning Coming Down and Letting Go
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After service this morning we lingered, we three,
The reverend Golightly, my dear wife and me.
The sun streamed in as we talked at the door;
The stained glass tinting the old wooden floor.
I relaxed for a moment, and then with a sigh
My breakfast beans blew quietly by.

I thought I’d escaped, and I would have had if
It hadn’t been quite so much of a whiff.
My wife stopped her chatter, sniffed and said “Pooh!”
Then gazed at me sternly. “Was that awful smell you?”
She gave me a Look and my heart gave a lurch,
What, admit before God that I’d farted in church?

“Me, dear? Of course not!” I said without thinking.
Holding my ground as they both stood there blinking.
A moment of hush and the reverend mused
“Oh it must have been me, then. Please do excuse!”