A cab driver in London works all hours for low pay, but he gets the prestige of working in a big city…surely?
It’s not so clear.
The average rate of a taxi driver is determined by his work, and passenger numbers, so it’s not a job that’s going to go anywhere.
Unlike his passengers, perhaps, a taxi driver enjoys a steady income, and that’s it.
He doesn’t get the fluctuating wage, perhaps, or the pay rise that makes headlines, as often as he wants.
It’s a steady job, but it’s slow moving.
It goes as slow as he does – around his head, around the bend, and into a dead end, just to drop someone off.
“It’s in the doldrums”, so he might say, longingly, over his steering wheel.
It’s not a princely life, either.
It doesn’t pay the bills they want, perhaps – a posh haircut here, a fancy holiday there, and a new car to share – at some point.
“It’s a soldier’s life…”, he might also bemoan, a typical tale of being seen to do something, but not a lot.
There’s a fairytale about it, but it doesn’t elicit much from the imagination. There isn’t much to go on, except a seat.
What is there in a taxi, or a ‘cab’, but someone else with a story, and not the driver?
His is a simple job, with a simple end, and so is ours, perhaps.
“We’re all simple, in the end”, he proverbially opines, fictionally, over a dissimilar steering wheel.
There’s truth in a cab driver, but not much in his job, so I think.