Mr cab driver...

Spent a bit of time talking about poets today and it reminded me that, a couple of weeks ago, I was in a cab with, shock horror but probably a result of the city ambassadors courses they go on, a rather literary taxi driver. The driver asked me what I did for a living. I slid down the chair and mumbled something about words, typing, writing. "You should be proud," said drive. "Writing? Writing? I like me books. I like me theatre," he practically screamed, clearly delighted that I hadn't asked him if he'd had a busy night. Then, for at least two minutes, he gave me his King Lear. "That were King Lear," he very kindly pointed out as the meter ticked towards four quid. "What I really like is me Blake." For a brief moment, I thought he was going to give me some Blakey from On The Buses. But no such luck. It appears that taxi drivers have a complex relationship with Enlightenment philosophy. William Blake's To the Muses sprang forth from his lips. He told me his rendition was word perfect and the result of lots of practice at home. "You start telling everyone you're a writer," he insisted, as he pulled over and I handed over the necessary, tipping him the change for his fine performance so I didn't have to hang about and suffer a burst of The Chimney Sweeper. I'm sure the tourists will enjoy it.