Many years ago at a party in Steinish a couple called for a cab to take them home. Getting no response, the driver came to the door to let them know he had arrived. The host asked the driver if he could wait a few minutes as the couple were not quite ready. She asked him in out of the cold.
That was when someone, probably unaware of who he was, asked him if he’d like a drink. Ach, he had time for a swift one. Big mistake. About half an hour later, he was knocking them back having forgotten all about his responsibility to take his customers home.
Then disaster. As he downed yet another, the king of the road teetered back and fell into the hearth. He ended up sitting on a roaring fire. The stench of smouldering corduroy has stayed with me. His blazing behind was assailed with cushions and the contents of a vase of flowers to extinguish him. Only in Stornoway.
It wouldn’t happen in Inverness. Last week, five minutes after calling to order a ride from my guesthouse on Telford Street, a text said my cab was on the way. Soon another message said my chariot was outside. Dashing out into the rain, I found … nothing. Getting soaked looking up and down the street for yet another five minutes was not my idea of fun.
Then a taxi turned into a side street further down. Knowing a similarly-named Telford Road was nearby, I trotted the 20 yards in case it was my cab. ‘Twasn’t. As I ambled back to my digs, my ordered car pulled up outside. In I clambered, expecting a fulsome apology for the lateness. 
“You were going to run off before I arrived,” was the driver’s charmless greeting. What? Why was I being accused? Did I hear him right? A joke, maybe? No hint of a smile was playing upon his lips. He repeated the charge, with even more sneering. Rather than apologise for his own lateness, he thought it better to get his attack in first. An interesting approach to customer service.
I explained why I had gone to check the side street. His sour response: “Aye, right.” Then he turned up the radio full blast. Although I like Steve Wright In The Afternoon, I take exception to it blaring so loudly that I cannot even think.
Although I’d been in a happy frame of mind after a successful session with a chiropractor the day before which almost did away with my pangs of agonising sciatica, I was exasperated at this fellow. Not a word more did he say until we arrived at Bridge Street when he was suddenly transformed himself into Mr Nice telling me he hoped I would enjoy my day. Really? Ah, after insulting me he was now angling for a tip.
That was never going to happen, matey boy. I counted out the £4.50 fare in as many coins as I could find, digging deep in every pocket and as slowly as I could. My turn to make him feel uncomfortable. Even when I handed over that sum, I maintained eye contact so he could not be sure if a generous tip was coming or not. Not. Seething, I exited and jotted down his registration details, the relevant times and saved those text messages.
Hours later, I was still fizzing. So Mrs X treated me to a teatime refreshment at an hostelry we hadn’t visited before. In a cathedral city, a drinkypoo is usually a king’s ransom. Not here. A busy place, they did discount double drams and cheap chow. Two main courses for less than £7.50. I mustn’t name the place but whether spoons or forks are your cutlery of choice, you’ll get a bargain.
Don’t sit up at the far end. Not unless you particularly want to put up with the constant swish of kitchen doors and the disturbingly loud crashes as less-professional members of staff fling empty bottles carelessly into a big bin. What a racket. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks and that carry-on had better have stopped. Ridiculous. Nearly wet myself with every clatter.
Later, Mrs X whispered that the other customers were acting a bit weird. She said not to look up and that they were all looking at us. What was the first thing I did? Yeah, I looked up. Oh heck. At least a dozen of the patrons were staring straight at us, not saying a word. It was like a scene from a horror film. Then I thought I heard the dulcet tones of the newsreader Fiona Bruce. We were sitting under the telly.
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