Where is left?

"Hey boss!!!" - a tall British lad shouted at me loudly and rudely. I stopped, as usual in that case, out of curiosity what the cat brought in this time. "Boss!" - he carried on shouting in the same manner - "Where is Leicester Square?" I answered boldly, imitating his tone: "You go straight and there is a big crossroads. You need to take a left into Charring Cross Rd. Then just carry on walking!" His ability to sense a sarcasm was clearly underdeveloped. On he went: "How long boss?" "About five minutes! Just take a left over there!" He seem to consider what was just said for a while. Then he looked at me and asked seriously: "So where is left, boss?"

Oyster card

Imagine this: I stand on the corner of Old Compton St. and Frith St., right by Cafe Nero. Some guys come from my left, some others arrive from my right. They see each other and greet each other enthusiastically! Around five-six people are standing in front of me, hugging, cheering and shouting merrily, like if they haven't seen each other for years. And then that girl appears. She holds an oyster card and starts tapping one of those on the shoulder. "Sir! Sir! Your oyster card! You dropped your oyster card!" That guy doesn't hear her. He doesn't even feel it when she is touching his shoulder. He's in the middle of an euphoric encounter. "YEAH! YEAH!" - him and people around him shout happily, blind and deaf for the outside world. She doesn't give up. "Sir! You just dropped your oyster card! SIR!" Those guys carry on for a while, as if nothing else mattered, but finally that fellow realises somebody's patting him, he turns around, looks down at her and says: "I don't do Oyster cards!" And everybody starts to laugh. And she stares at him perplexed: "But... But..." And then her boyfriend just drags her away...

Long lost civilisations

Night wasn't that young any more. Incredible stories were peeping through fissures in reality. Ghosts of the past were walking side by side with the mortals and nothing at all was certain. Those two fellows appeared out of nowhere. One of them was a stocky chap. The other was very, very short. They didn't want a lift. At that time of a night strangers seem to be like brothers, so those two basically stopped for a bit of a friendly conversation. After a while somebody asked them where were they from. "Peru!" - explained the stocky one. Then sniggered, pointed out his very, very short friend with a finger and added jeeringly: "Inca!"

The Connaught Mayfair

It was raining. I looked for a shelter inside my trike. Suddenly I was approached by two, smartly dressed gents in their fifties. "Take us to Connaught Mayfair. We want to pass by Bentley salon." - They politely ordered. I started to pull down the rainshield. They said they didn't want it. "You'll get wet." I warned. "We'll get wet like you guys!" I smiled internally, thinking that to get wet together is a great example of solidarity... There was something unusual about them. They spoke English with a very thick Atlantic twang, however between themselves they used French. It was a very bizzare French though. Were they some exceptionally snobby morons or, maybe, they came from Quebec? We will never find out... They asked me to stop by the corner of Bruton St. and Berkley Sq. to take a look at those fat Bentleys inside the salon. They cheered and shouted like little boys. Both of them produced their mobile phones and started to take some pictures... After a while they got enough of that and sat back on my trike. "Let's go to the hotel." Then, very unfortunately indeed, I got cofused. I couldn't remind myself where that bloody hotel exactly was. I was going in circles for a while. They didn't mind much, clearly enjoying our little journey. Finally I stopped by Chesterfield hotel on Charles St. and asked at the reception. Those very kind people who work there gave me directions. My destination was near by. I got there quickly. Believe me - The Connaught Mayfair is a VERY high profile hotel. I felt quite guilty so I said quickly: "Gentlemen, my apologies. If I were a Japanese I would commit a ritual suicide." They laughed. One of them asked: "How much do we owe you?" "20 quid." "20 what?" He didn't get it. "20 pounds." "Nooooo! This is too much!" I was soaked, sweaty and felt pretty humiliated. I just wanted to get over it quickly. "Okay then! Pay me whatever you like..." They exchanged a few phrases in their grotesque French. Then counted some change, one of them passed it to me and they were gone. Some say rich people live too far from reality to be human but "it occurred to me that, like most of the very rich people I had known, he was trying to save money" to buy a new Bentley, I suppose.

Corridors of power

One hundred six years ago was born Lord Charles Percy Snow, Baron Snow of City Leicester, English writer, physicist and politician. His political fiction presents a fascinating vision of influential academics, scheming politicians and lobbying businessmen fighting tooth and nail, amongst somewhat dark and narrow corridors of power, to carry off the palm. On his birthday I wonder what the highly privileged protagonists of his novels would think about rickshaws on the streets of London. Would they notice them at all? What would they say to people who spend a fortune on "Ban! Don't license!" campaign?

For ten years we've been patiently trying to set clear and fair rules for the industry and to get licensed. In exchange we've got only a tedious waiting game, abusive publicity and repetitive repressions towards rickshaw business. Repressions will not change anything. Simple and just rules can do it once and forever. Here we are - hard working, serious people. We are part of this city. Be responsible and let us do our job responsibly. Everyone will benefit from that. All we need is to get licensed. As a result all the fuss and misunderstandings will basically disappear.

Strange animals

Another night, passing through the streets I spotted two drunk, young girls. Those were not of that disgustingly-vomiting-while-their-tits/arse cheeks-are-getting-exposed kind. They were just innocently frolicking and I don't mean by this any lesbian foreplay. One of them was actually resting on the pavement, clearly overcome by a transitory weakness. The other looked at her from above and suddenly joined her. There they were laughing out loudly, cuddling like kittens. Smiling I watched them, thinking: "What a strange animals we are!"

Stealing

So I'm going down Regent St. and there's that douche bag, with two girls, flagging me down. As I stop he says they want to go there and there but can only give me a tenner. I thank them politely and advise him to keep his tenner for later. Off I go. I keep going slowly down the road. By Piccadilly Circus a rickshaw passes me by. There they are, all three, and that smartass smiles at me triumphantly, nods towards that Bangladeshi rider who's carrying them and says: "You see - he went for a tenner!" "You are a tight cunt and he's just silly!" - I answer quickly. And then that Asian lad turns around, looks at me askew and asks: "Stealing?! What am I stealing?!?"