Let me tell you something: I’ve studied geography like a scholar, recited Shakespeare at our church hall, and probably read every book on London’s history. I graduated from university with a degree in literature, spent weekends tutoring kids in maths, and I devour podcasts on politics and art.
Let me tell you about Mrs. Khan, a retired surgeon from Birmingham. I explained the Roman roads hidden beneath our feet, the ancient settlements that shaped modern London. She replied, eyes bright with surprise, ‘You know this so well, you could teach at a university.’
Last spring, a nervous young violinist named Elena had flown in from Kraków for her very first London concert. I told her about the hidden acoustics beneath St. James’s Park, how the trees bounce sound in a way that could make her Stradivarius sing. She raised an eyebrow, then dared to ask me to hum the effect. I started softly – just a few notes and watched her face light up like Piccadilly at night.
Soon, we were deep in conversation about Brahms’s harmonic twists. When I dropped her off she stepped out clutching her violin, turned, and said, ‘Thank you – I’ve never felt more at home.’ In that moment I wasn’t just her driver. I was a guide, an audience of one, sharing the city’s secrets to the fullest.
It gets on my wick when people say taxi drivers are ignorant, racist bigots who can’t string two sentences together in the English language. I blame Private Eye.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 