TAXI

More readers than the rest put together! 22 SEPTEMBER 2015 | TAXI 33
COLUMNIST
MIDDLE AGED
AND DANGEROUS
JACK EVANS
Taxi driver Jack Evans has a senior moment and has to be hunted across town for his petrol
I’m now at that age when I can
look around London and say “I
remember when all this was fields.”
A recent pick-up at 90 Long Acre
took me back 30 years to when I
was working at a publishing
company across the road. It’s hard
to believe, but back then, this
corner of Long Acre and Endell
Street was green space. People who
worked in the area came here to eat
sandwiches on sunny lunchtimes. I
remember seeing a jazz-funk band
playing there one afternoon. Sadly,
one by one the little Italian
sandwich bars sold out to
anonymous chain places, and
Covent Garden’s little village green
became an office block.
As you build up a store of long
term memories, your short term
memory can become less reliable.
I’ve certainly become prone to
“Senior Moments.” One recent event
caused me a lot of embarrassment.
I wasn’t aware of it until my wife
informed me that the police had
visited our home when I was at
work. Lord knows what she
thought when the uniform turned
up asking if I lived there. She
texted to say I was wanted in
connection with filling my cab with
diesel and driving away. Of course,
I knew this accusation was a
ghastly mistake. No doubt the fuel
station had found something amiss
when cashing up, and put it down
to one of the country’s few
remaining cash-users when they
found their till out. Before I
phoned the police I made sure I
had the dated fuel discount
vouchers I was given on my last
two visits as proof.
The awful truth
My contact at the “community
policing team” was as reasonable
and non-accusatory as the name
implies. The name suggested they
might be more interested in
running village fetes and selling
raffle tickets rather that chasing
criminals, but when the PC
suggested I pop into the fuel station
to pay my £26.50 arrears, I refused
point blank. PC Community Spirit
remained patient though, and
skilfully worked on my psychology.
Maybe sir was tired? Perhaps he
had a lot on his mind and just forgot
to pay? He said it happens all the
time, even to police drivers. I
became disorientated as self-doubt
slowly crept in. The alleged
incident didn’t happen this week,
but over a month ago. I can barely
remember what happened
yesterday, let alone what happened
five weeks’ ago. It didn’t happen at
my regular fuel station either. I
managed to pinpoint the date. It
was Monday morning, the day after
I drove back from a weekend in
Yorkshire. Maybe I was tired and
distracted when I filled up at
Morrisons? Maybe I was excited
about the bargains I’d shrewdly
negotiated, and was looking
forward to a weekly programme of
exciting value for money meals? I
was eventually forced to accept the
awful truth. Especially when my
community policeman said he had
video evidence. It was clearly me
judging by the description given. He
described how I’d methodically
wiped the excess fuel from the filler
hole before calmly driving away.
There was no more to do than plead
guilty to the charge of being Middle
Aged and Dangerous in a built-up
area. Plan B would have been to
claim insanity. I could have babbled
incoherently about jazz bands
playing on Covent Garden’s village
green back in the 80s. But no, he
accepted it was all an innocent
mistake and I agreed to pay the
money back ASAP.
I still remember nothing of my
crime, but it’s only a short step
away from other daft things I’ve
done when tired and distracted.
Not just me: two of my friends have
also put petrol into a diesel engine.
Then there was the recent visit to
another supermarket. After
shopping, I secured the trolley back
on its little chain thing before taking
my shopping bag out. I had to reach
into a small gap and retrieve each
shopping item individually, then
finally the bag itself.
The fuel station staff were equally
reasonable and understanding when
I visited that evening. It clearly
happens all the time and it wasn’t
treated as a big deal. Thankfully,
there were no posters up of me with
“WANTED” highlighted in red,
warning that I was hunted in three
counties, and not to be approached.
I’m still not sure why it took five
weeks for my crime to have been
discovered. I had crossed the
county line several times since the
day of my offence – though only at
60 miles per hour in order to
conserve fuel that I might
eventually have to pay for.
Pilfered cat food
Back home, my wife had calmed
down and the cat had gone back to
bed. Apparently, my faithful house
tiger had defended his dad’s
honour and had observed the law
with a malevolent demeanour. I
thought he was going to attack the
policeman and I had visions of my
good lady and the cat being
bundled into a van, taken
downtown and quizzed under
harsh lights about my
temperament.
I had a lot to think about though:
putting petrol in a diesel engine
had escalated to driving off
without paying. What next?
Forgetting to put fuel in, but
paying anyway? I really need to
start paying attention. It’s a
slippery slope to ending up at the
supermarket in my pyjamas with
my pockets full of pilfered
cat food. n
Humorous anecdotes about
senior moments can be sent
to Letters at 11 Woodfield
Road, London, W9 2BA or
email editor@ltda.co.uk