Strangers

Back from a trip Daan Souf, where I seem to have picked up a kennel cough from too many late nights. When I try to speak, currently all that comes out of my larynx is a whisper/croak, though I feel fine apart from that. I met up with some internet friends in central London (who know who they are), and with whom I had a lovely time. The sun found us last stragglers drinking coffee outside Smithfield Market on Sunday morning, and I managed to miss my flight home to Edinburgh that evening through absolutely no fault of my own.

I've been really lucky with taxi-drivers lately. The stereotype is of a Little Englander nazi raving about nationalism and immigrants, but I have been blessed. A few months ago, when feeling down, my taxi driver in Colchester engaged me in an uplifting discussion on religion and philosophy of self, and gave me a Khalil Gibran book because he thought I'd appreciate it. When I asked him his name, he laughed and told me he was John Doe. I think of him still, and am looking for the next person in the chain to whom I should pass the book. It will be a complete stranger, to whom I will introduce myself as Jane Doe.

My taxi-driver on Sunday was also a breath of fresh air. He drove me from the City (I think) to Tottenham, picking up my luggage on the way to the airport. We talked about the enhancements that immigrants bring to England, the commons and utopian socialism. I don't remember his name now, but it was probably John Doe. John- you're a star!