tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42615477624011908402024-03-13T06:01:39.936-07:00View from the MirrorThe experiences of a London Taxi DriverCharliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-58510492630836056352011-10-02T15:47:00.000-07:002011-10-02T15:47:50.617-07:00New Website!<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;">Hello everyone,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;">Many, many thanks to all of you who've read my posts here. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;">I've received many kind words over the past few months, all of which are very much appreciated.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;">I've now moved my site & have a new address:</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: x-large;"><b>www.blackcablondon.wordpress.com</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;">Here, my writing all about London and my experiences as a cabbie in this great city will continue.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: large;">Hope to see you there!</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-90777703334795711692011-08-18T13:49:00.000-07:002011-08-18T14:01:53.797-07:00Down and Out in London<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This is Tom and Francis with their dog, Milo. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-94oTuScC-8U/Tk11aQ2wUVI/AAAAAAAAAEU/rgo5OiCVTWo/s1600/Tom+%2526+Francis+with+Milo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-94oTuScC-8U/Tk11aQ2wUVI/AAAAAAAAAEU/rgo5OiCVTWo/s320/Tom+%2526+Francis+with+Milo.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I met them and stopped for nice chat recently on Denman Street; a location just off of Shaftesbury Avenue, behind the flashing altar to advertising that is Piccadilly Circus.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Tom and Francis are both Scottish, but have been in London for over twenty years. They’re both ‘Big Issue’ vendors, and have formed a solid friendship with each other on the streets of the capital.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When I met them, they were waiting outside a noodle bar, the owner being kind enough to give the pair a piping-hot noodle-fix every day for a knock-down price. If you look carefully, Tom (on the left) has his own chopsticks, which he produced from his jacket. Francis on the other hand hasn’t mastered the art of Far-Eastern cutlery (I know how he feels), and prefers to dig out his snack with a fork. As he said, in his broad Glaswegian accent;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Och! It all goes in and doon’ the same way!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Tom and Francis were exceptionally friendly, and I wish some of the stressed passengers I have in my taxi every now and then were able to adopt the same, laid-back attitude!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Cabbing around London, one of the saddest things I see on a daily basis are the large numbers of homeless people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">London is a city of immense wealth. Even in these thrifty times, it is possible to see people out enjoying themselves. West-End restaurants and bars are often heaving, large crowds pour out of glittering theatres every night, and towering office blocks continue to sprout up in the financial districts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Amongst this however, there are still people sleeping rough. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Walk through any major area in London, and you’ll see examples of destitution; homeless people either begging or sleeping; huddled up in filthy, foul-smelling doorways with nothing more than a grubby sleeping bag or a few sheets of flimsy cardboard to keep themselves warm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sadly, the psychology of the human mind tends to make homeless individuals invisible. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Embarrassment, awkwardness, shame and, unfortunately with some people, disgust, leads passers-by to avert their gaze and walk on as quickly as possible. This is something I’ve been guilty of myself on many occasions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hDLOiFvPqQE/Tk11pY88ajI/AAAAAAAAAEY/YOzUGOqRWTU/s1600/Ghost.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hDLOiFvPqQE/Tk11pY88ajI/AAAAAAAAAEY/YOzUGOqRWTU/s320/Ghost.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sometime ago, I remember seeing a beggar walk past a pub on Villiers Street; a crowded thoroughfare tucked alongside Charing Cross Station.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Being summertime, most of the drinking was being conducted outside, the boozers taking advantage of the warm evening air.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The beggar approached the crowd asking for change and, to a small degree, was successful in procuring a few coins.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, one of the pub’s patrons decided a violent lecture was in order.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“You make me f***ing SICK. Why don’t you get a f***ing job, you low-life piece of ****.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The mouthpiece who barked out this tirade was a huge bloke; over six foot tall with a massive gut and powerful arms. A typical bully, with an attitude so stereotypical, it was almost laughable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As demonstrated above, when not being ignored, the homeless can be subjected to great hostility. Over the years, it has not been unbeknown for rough sleepers to be physically attacked and, in some cases, even murdered. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In 1999, the pop-group ‘Madness’ released a single entitled ‘Johnny the Horse.’ The song told the life-story of a tramp (known by his friends as Johnny the Horse) who was tragically beaten and killed. As the lyric goes;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Johnny the horse was kicked to death,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> He died for entertainment.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On a happier note, a few years ago, whilst learning ‘The Knowledge’ and studying the streets of London, I saw an extremely heart-warming sight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was a cold evening, a few days before Christmas, and I’d stopped at red lights on Oxford Street, just before Marble Arch. Being the festive season, Oxford Street was buzzing, packed with late-night shoppers. Shop displays glowed invitingly and, overhead, the traditional Christmas lights sparkled away their electric magic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My attention was soon drawn though to a taxi, which had pulled up on the opposite side of the road (on double red-lines no less- an action which would lead to the driver being fined if he lurked there for too long). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Out of this cab climbed a short, stout cabbie who looked to be in his mid-late 60s. In his hand, he clutched a supermarket carrier bag.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Halfway between a walk and a run, he dodged across Oxford Street towards a souvenir shop. There, in the doorway, sat a West-Indian man; a down-and-out, with long, natty dreads. He was wrapped in a well-worn, grey coat, the window behind displaying cheap trinkets; plastic flags, tacky ashtrays and little Big Ben statues. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The cabbie approached the homeless fellow and knelt down beside him. The two appeared to be about the same age and were clearly familiar with each other. As he crouched on the tiled floor, the cabbie quickly took items out of the bag, showing them to his transient friend. The goods were all food-stuffs; packets of biscuits, crisps, tins of soft drink and so on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The traffic light then turned green, and I had to drive off. I’ve never forgotten that scene though, and I often find myself wondering what story and history lay behind that bond.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">One down and out I do know a bit more about is Clefrin Frederick, also known as ‘Mad Fred’ or ‘Fred the Tramp.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I grew up in South Harrow in the 1980s and, at that time, Fred the Tramp was a well-known, local figure.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Originally from the island of Grenada, Fred had swapped the Caribbean’s lush beauty for the grey suburbs of North-West London. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">To a child, Fred the Tramp could be a terrifying figure. His sported a huge, bristling beard (which would have given any cut-throat pirate a run for their money), and always wore rustling supermarket bags on his feet, often in varying states of decay. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Opposite the tube station, there was a small communal area, constructed from worn stones and containing wooden benches and a collection of bushes. Fred had commandeered this as his pitch, and he would hold court there, hoarding rubbish, knocking back Special Brew (he was a chronic alcoholic), talking to himself and shouting every now and then at passers-by. His makeshift home was also opposite the area’s toughest pub; ‘The Constellation’ (aka ‘The Con’), where Fred no doubt managed to scrounge the odd pint. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although we lived in a flat and had no garden, the Council provided my parents with a pitch on the nearby allotments. Fred could often be seen here too, loitering amongst the long, muddy strips. He even introduced a dartboard to the allotments; attaching it to the Council’s fading blue rules and notices sign.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">At other times, I’d peer through the living-room’s net curtains, and see Fred tramping across the estate’s car-park in his improvised footwear, muttering away to himself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although ‘Mad Fred’ initially appeared an intimidating character, he was in fact rather popular amongst those adults who took the time to chat and get to know him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">He was also something of a philosopher, and would leave shabby, improvised signs lying around for all to see- rather like an early prelude to Banksy. Amongst his written wisdom was this gem, which I assume was a reference to the then current Cold War.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“All good things must come to an end, but there’s no use pushing the wrong button in this computer.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My father often spoke to Mad Fred. He first came to know him when his van once broke down. Fred approached my Dad and, after a look under the vehicle’s bonnet, he located the problem and soon had the van running again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It turned out that Fred was a gifted mechanic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Before turning to the streets, he’d been employed by the London Fire Brigade, working as a mechanic on their fire engines. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Fred also had a wife and children, but sadly this relationship was destroyed. Laden with heart-ache, he’d turned to the streets and alcohol, gradually morphing into the shambling, bearded figure whom the public came to regard as the crazed tramp of Northolt Road.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Luckily, Frederick’s story has a happy ending; one which is quite unbelievable, and a classic example of ‘you couldn’t script it.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In the mid-1970s, Fred had owned a house, which was repossessed by the building society. They sold the house ten years later, for a tidy profit. However, they refused to hand over Fred’s share, claiming that he was “incapable of handling his own affairs.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Whilst he was living rough, Fred was in fact owed some £50,000. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">He would often approach the building society but, with bags on his feet and an alcoholic haze surrounding him, he would be sent right out. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Fred finally managed to secure his cash in the early 1990s, with the help of a kindly local shop keeper, who contacted his solicitors and spent seven months fighting his corner. The building society finally handed over £50,000 plus £6,000 in interest. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">But the story does not end there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Suited and cleaned up, Mad Fred was now able to afford a trip back to his native Grenada. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was there that he discovered his father, who had passed away whilst Fred was living rough 1,000s of miles away, had left his son a home and a large plot of land.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">After years of heartache, alcoholism and hard-living, Fred had gained his very own slice of paradise.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I don’t know what the solution is for London’s homeless population. Nor am I naïve enough to believe that many vagrants do not carry extremely complex issues with them<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, as Mad Fred’s story demonstrates; never be judgemental.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The people we see huddled in London’s doorways, subways and stairwells are all individuals. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; line-height: 18px;">Alcohol and drug abuse, depression, leaving the army and being unable to cope with civilian life, financial problems, loosing loved ones, escaping violence; these are all possible causes of homelessness, and each and every down-and-out sleeping rough in London tonight will have their own separate tale to tell.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V6rQ98WnE5c/Tk110RWqS2I/AAAAAAAAAEc/42aEslmVKqc/s1600/Heart+%2526+Soul.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V6rQ98WnE5c/Tk110RWqS2I/AAAAAAAAAEc/42aEslmVKqc/s320/Heart+%2526+Soul.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Thanks to the Harrow Observer; 2/12/1993 for the details of Frederick's case.</span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-66602446093884389052011-08-07T16:54:00.000-07:002011-08-07T16:54:13.507-07:00Remembering my first day as a London Cabbie<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d finally been awarded the coveted green badge; the small, oval-shaped, metal brooch which allowed me to go out onto London’s streets and ply for hire.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Of course, in order to kick-start my new career, I also needed a taxi.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">For over four years, I’d fantasised about driving the iconic London Black Cab, and now, like so many drivers before me, it was time to go out and secure one.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There are two types of London Cabbie. In slang terms, they are known as:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">1) ‘Mushers’- those who own their taxi outright.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">& <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">2) ‘Journeymen’- cabbies who rent their vehicle from a taxi fleet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Black Cabs do not come cheap (the latest models start at around £30,000) and, when you first begin your career, it is recommended that you rent for some time whilst you get a feel for the job. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">So I was about to become a Journeyman.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When renting, although you don’t own the vehicle in which you work, the cash you pay provides an umbrella of sorts; covering the tax, insurance, breakdown cover and any repairs which may be required, so it's a pretty good deal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">A friend of a friend had recommended a taxi rental garage to me and, after getting in contact, a cab was arranged for me. The day after receiving my badge, I made my way to the depot in the early afternoon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It seems to be a prerequisite that any garage dealing with vehicles should be located in an arch below a railway viaduct, and this one was no exception. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although about 30 minutes away from where I currently live, the taxi depot was a stones-throw from the council flat in which I grew up in, and it was a therefore a warm feeling to return to a familiar area; a place which meant something to me, as I sought to begin my new career.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Being December, it was chilly and the last few days had seen unusually heavy snowfalls. For a while I'd feared that the snow and ice would prevent me from picking up the cab and going to work. Luckily, when the day arrived, the snow had mostly thawed to a grey mush, and driving didn’t prove too much of a problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Trudging up along the narrow strip which ran alongside the railway arches, dirty grey ice piled on each side, I spotted the taxi reserved for me parked up ahead, tucked up tight against a wire fence, through which weeds grew, despite the bitter weather and criss-crossed metal links.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The taxi was a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">‘Fairway’</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">; a model originally known as the Austin FX4; the classic, iconic design which was in production for an amazing length of time; 1958 to 1997. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d longed to drive one of these dear old vehicles for years, and now my chance was close at hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The garage unit was cluttered with all manner of cabs in varying states of disorder and repair. These vehicles were lined up in a tight zigzag line alongside the railway arches and a few more sat inside; one hoisted up on a sturdy, well-used lift, its radiator absent. The garage echoed to the tinny tones of a crackling radio, tuned into an AM station which blared out golden oldies from the 60s, 70s and 80s.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I entered the garage, not quite sure if I was allowed to or not (health and safety and all that). It appeared that the floor had once been painted red, but it was now flaking, caked in sticky muck and grease. The atmosphere reeked of stale engine oil, as most garages do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I finally found the proprietor upstairs (upstairs being a balcony, accessed by a steep, metal staircase). He was a short, squat man- not unlike an unshaven Danny DeVito (who, by coincidence, starred in the US comedy drama; '</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Taxi</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">'), dressed in a grubby, blue tracksuit, his head topped off with a dark blue beanie hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The garage owner’s desk was heaving under paperwork, most of which seemed to be smudged with oily thumb marks. The rickety ledge upon which we perched seemed in danger of collapsing every time a Piccadilly line tube rumbled overhead, rattling the brick cavern like a bowling alley.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The proprietor removed a short cigarette butt from his lips and held his hand up in a halting gesture. The fingers and palm were congealed in accumulated grease and oil. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I’d better not shake your hand,” he said politely. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Even indoors, the air was frigid enough to turn his breath to steam. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Eager to settle the rent, I counted out a wad of notes. They were fresh and crisp from the bank but , like the files on the desk, would probably soon end up besmirched with oily smears.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Thank you very much.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Picking up a set of keys and, maintaining his desire to not contaminate my person with engine muck, the garage owner dropped them into my hand from a short height.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“She’s a decent little motor,” he explained we made our way back downstairs. “Mileage’s good for her age. Only one owner- an old boy who had to give the game up, gutted to sell it. Anyway, here we are.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The taxi’s door was already unlocked. He opened it and I climbed in. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry I didn’t have time to clean her yet. You ever driven a Fairway before?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No,” I replied; “did the driving test in a TX4.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“That’s alright; she's simple enough.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The mechanic lit a fresh smoke and leant in, flicking various switches and levers, the <o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">cigarette forcing him to talk out of the side of his mouth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Lights, full beam, indicators… hazards… heater. Wipers.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">His demonstration was rapid; too fast to follow. Sooty wisps streamed out of his nostrils as he tapped on the meter and ran through its functions. Again it was impossible to keep up. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I guessed I’d have to work it out as I went along.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“This is a lucky cab, you know,” he concluded, more smoke billowing from his reddened nose. “You do get ‘em. And this is one of ‘em.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I didn’t know why he was giving me the hard-sell; I’d already handed over the money! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“You want some advice?” he continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Go easy on the hours. I’ve seen it happen before; especially when they first begin. They work all the hours God sends… and end up burning themselves out before long. Thing to remember is- treat it as the best part-time job in the world!”…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It felt wonderful to finally sit behind the wheel of a working cab. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It took a short while to find the ignition point- unusually, it was located in the middle of the steering coloumn- and, upon turning the key, the powerful diesel engine roared into life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After a few revs, it settled down to a steady, rocking, ticking grumble; the sound so characteristic of a London Cab.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The taxi was getting on in age a bit- it was 18 years old. When it rolled off of the production line at Coventry, I was still in secondary school. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Here's my first cab in all her glory:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-INKcnjhv75g/Tj8ZQfZGbFI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/8OxzjwnUydk/s1600/My+first+cab.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="305" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-INKcnjhv75g/Tj8ZQfZGbFI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/8OxzjwnUydk/s320/My+first+cab.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After engaging the automatic gear and releasing the handbrake, I edged away from the garage, concentrating with all my might. It was a narrow area to drive through and, not used to the vehicle’s more ample dimensions, I was rather concerned that I'd chip one of the looming railway arches.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, once on the main, much broader road, I managed to gain a little more confidence, and was soon chugging along feeling rather proud. Being larger than a normal car, the driver’s seat in a taxi is raised higher than usual, providing an excellent view of the road (after driving a cab, sitting behind the controls of a family car feels rather like squatting in a go-kart!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Soon after departing the garage, my route required a climb up a steep hill, something which the old Fairway rather struggled with! I was quite thankful when the cab reached the summit and its engine settled back down.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My old primary school happens to be situated on this arduous hill and it was a rather strange feeling to drive past, remembering my first day there whilst considering the first day of my new pursuit in life. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although eager to work, I’d decided to take the vehicle home first; wanting time to get it all in order, and to make sure I was comfortable driving it before I undertook the terrifying task of picking up my first fare.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The cab had been sadly neglected during its time stored at the garage. The interior smelt musky, the carpet and seats were dusty, and the outer body was pretty filthy. Once back home, my father helped me to scrub the Fairway up. He is somewhat obsessive when it comes to car cleaning- he used to clean cars for money as a teenager, and one of his customers was the late, great, boxer, Henry Cooper! (Our ‘Enery drove a white, Ford Granada at the time in case you were wondering). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Needless to say, my Dad did a fantastic job and, before long, the old taxi was gleaming, in prime, show-room condition.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The following day was to be my first as a working London Taxi Driver.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And it was a date special for other reasons too-<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was 24</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> December.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Christmas Eve.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I awoke extremely anxious that morning. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My first unofficial job was to drive my girlfriend to Euston Station; she’s Scottish, and was travelling back to spend the festive season with her family. Along the way, she helped to keep me calm with kind words of support and encouragement. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In the dingy, fume-reeking drop off point located deep below the station building, we embraced and I was given a good luck kiss. As my girlfriend disappeared up the stairs and onto the Euston’s concourse, I climbed back into the cab, slamming the heavy door behind me with the distinctive clunk of a taxi door.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was now on my own.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">With a deep breath, I edged the cab up the sloping ramp leading back out into daylight and the main road. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Seconds later, after crossing Euston Road, I was rapidly consumed by nerves. I snapped the left-hand indicator on and pulled over onto one of Bloomsbury’s many picturesque squares. The butterflies taking flight in my guts were worse than ones experienced before the many appearances which I’d undergone whilst studying the Knowledge. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was now all very real- what if I picked a fare up and I didn’t know where their destination was? What if I forgot the way? What if I failed to remember the direction of one-way streets? I’d done the training, but was terrified about putting it to use! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Thankfully, I still had some ‘Rescue Remedy’ left over from my final appearance exam.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I took the small, yellow canister out of my coat pocket, shook it, and sprayed a good blast of the calming liquid onto my dry tongue. It seemed to do the trick (the brandy-like flavour surely helping), and I pulled away from the kerb. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I didn’t yet turn on the ‘For Hire’ sign though. I decided to carry out that task somewhere symbolic. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And so I headed for Trafalgar Square; the centre of London.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Arriving at the infamous landmark sooner than I’d hoped, I knew that the time had to take the leap. Breathing deeply in and out, I pushed a small rubber button on the meter. The narrow digital readout strip warmed up and, seconds later, little illuminated red words bore the phrase “For Hire.” Outside the cab, just above the windscreen, the yellow Taxi light was now on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was live.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Yet nothing happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Nobody suddenly shouted, “Taxi!” No arms stuck out into the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I drove around Trafalgar Square and through Admiralty Arch; the fine monument which leads to the Mall; the red-tarmac road heading straight towards Buckingham Palace. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I wasn’t thinking straight and, being around 11.30am, this trajectory led me straight into the Changing of the Guard; the extravagant- yet regular- ceremony, in which the Queen’s Royal guard essentially clock in and out for duty. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The roads were jammed with traffic and camera-clicking tourists, as the Queen’s red-coated Royal protectors marched towards the palace, their brass instruments providing a soundtrack to the marvellous spectacle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although crawling through this ceremonial jam, I didn’t mind at all. It sent a shiver down my spine, as I realised I’d now become a part of London; one of the established icons which makes the city such a famous and world-renowned place. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The traffic eventually cleared away and, seeing the area as something of a comfort zone, I drove around the Palace, up Whitehall and back towards Trafalgar Square.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Still nothing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I craned my neck up and checked the hire light was actually on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I returned to the Mall… and it was there that the first hand went out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Panic seized me but, somehow I managed to pull over safely (as I’d been taught and tested on my taxi-driving lessons of course). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The group who’d flagged me down were a family of tourists from South Africa. Before entering the cab, they stood next to it, posing for photos; something which made my heart swell with pride.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Now, in the London Taxi trade, there is an ancient tradition regarding your first day of work. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And that is you MUST give your first ever fare away for free. To accept payment for your first fare is considered to be most unlucky. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My first job was actually the shortest I’ve ever had to do! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I picked the tourists up on the Mall, beside a building known as the ICA Gallery, and they wanted to go to Trafalgar Square; a distance of about 900ft! I told them that it wasn’t very far at all and it would be cheaper to walk, but they replied that they knew, and just wanted to experience a ride in a London Black Cab!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The group were very friendly and, as I drove the short distance, I announced;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I’ve got good news and bad news…. The bad news is that this is my first day, and you’re my first passengers; I’m not very experienced. The good news is that, being my first fare, this journey is on the house; the ride is free!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The group were amazed that they’d hired such an inexperienced cabbie; it was a real novelty to them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, when I arrived at Trafalgar Square (a tricky place to stop for my first job), they insisted on paying me. The fare was around £2.60, and I begged them not to hand the coins over, insisting that it was tradition to provide the journey gratis. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, they were adamant that I should receive something for my troubles, and proceeded to place a handful of change on the dish- £1.96 in total. Luckily, the cabbie’s tradition states that, if the first punter insists on paying, you can donate the fare to charity, so I managed to avoid plaguing my career with bad fortune!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After my first job, I decided to head towards St Paul’s. As I approached the beautiful Cathedral, an elderly cabbie passed on the opposite side, nodding his head at me and jabbing his thumb behind him. As he had passengers on board, I guessed he was indicating a potential fare he’d been unable to pick up, but I wasn’t too sure, not yet entirely being au-fait with cabbie etiquette. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sure enough though, a few seconds later, I was flagged down by a group of elderly French people. They were on the other side of the road, so it was time to use the London Taxi’s famous turning circle. Checking the road was clear, I spun the wheel around; turning the cab with ease- no need for a strenuous three point turn. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The group climbed in, all smiles and very amiable. The elderly chap checked a directional message on his phone and, through the partition, asked rather hesitantly for… “Saint… James’s… Square?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Still a nervous-wreck, I rejoiced at being asked such a straight-forward point.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Certainly Sir.” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I pulled away from the kerb and began the journey, I began to realise just how effective the Knowledge system of training was. Upon hearing the words, “St James’s Square,” something in my mind clicked, and I immediately knew which direction to head, which route to follow. My brain has been conditioned to London and her streets.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Upon arriving at the required destination, I spoke to the group in the extremely limited, very poor French that I know, somehow managing to wish them a happy Christmas. They were lovely people, and waved me off with a smile as I left. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The next fare was just around the corner; on St James’s Street- an area dense with exclusive gentlemen’s clubs (by gents clubs of course, I mean ones of the red-leather chair, brandy sipping, cigar smoking variety. Not the pole-dancing, nudie kind- they’re to be found in other parts of town!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">These passengers consisted of a father and his two, grown-up sons; a fantastic bunch, decked out in tweed suits and boater hats.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The group wanted ‘Simpsons in the Strand’; an exceptionally posh restaurant located next door to the Savoy Hotel. I panicked a little with this journey; several routes presented themselves to me, but I wasn’t sure which one would be best at avoiding traffic. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Luckily I didn’t need to worry; being Christmas Eve, many people had finished work, and the roads were rather quiet. The chaps were also tremendously civil and friendly, and we had a good chuckle along the way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When I dropped them off, the father gave me a nice tip and shook me warmly by the hand. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was sorry to see him go.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Before departing, he told me to head for the law courts a little further up; “bound to pick a fare up there!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I acted on the advice and, sure enough, met my next fare. However, it wasn’t a judge, but a young fellow, lugging his Christmas shopping along Fleet Street. He wanted ‘Finchley Road; just past the O2 centre.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This passenger was rather quiet and, for part of the journey, he actually nodded off! Seeing him in the mirror, head tilted back, eyes closed reminded me of the appearance I’d had when an examiner had feigned sleep...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Thankfully, by the time we neared his destination, he’d awoken from his slumber. Passing the O2 shopping centre, he said<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Just up here on the left, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Lithos Road?” I responded.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The passenger seemed rather surprised that I knew the place; a small street off of Finchley Road, and it made me extremely gratified to know that the long time I’d spent on the Knowledge had not been in vain.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I had a few more fares, and the final passenger that day was a young gentleman from Kuwait. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I picked him up on Holborn, and he needed to get to a bicycle shop on High Street Kensington. As we set off, he told me that the journey may be a problem, as he’d seen police shutting off a number of roads due to an incident.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sure enough, as we approached the junction where High Holborn meets Kingsway, a blue and white striped police cordon was in place. Once again, the Knowledge of London etched into my mind kicked in, and negotiating a new route around the blockade was no problem. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I don’t wish to sound arrogant or bombastic, but working my way around London’s pitfalls whilst other people peered over their steering wheels looking lost and bewildered made me feel immensely proud. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was only my first day on the job, but I already adored it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was an odd feeling being my own boss and, if truth be told, it didn’t even feel like working at all. As Winston Churchill once said; “if you find something you really love, you’ll never work again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Turning off the ‘for hire’ sign, I switched on the cab’s ageing radio, barely capable of picking up the FM frequency. To top the day off, the crackly station I managed to tune into was in the middle of playing, “I Wish it Could be Christmas Every Day”; the 1973 hit by Roy Wood and Wizard; one of the greatest, cheeriest festive hits of all time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My new career as a London Cabbie had begun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d enjoyed a wonderful day at work, and was heading home for Christmas behind the wheel of an iconic Black Taxi, smiling all the way as I realised that the trials, pain and anguish which I’d suffered on the Knowledge had truly been worth it.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-72520220708583280012011-07-24T18:07:00.000-07:002011-07-25T16:05:54.340-07:00The Knowledge of London (Part 8- Receiving the coveted Green Badge)<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After being red-lined at the very last hurdle, I felt bewildered, and remained so for many days. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was at a loss, and had no idea where to turn. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">All sorts of paranoid thoughts swam through my mind. Why had I been barred from passing? Were there too many cab drivers already out there? Had there been a mix up due to the PCO’s change of location? Had they mistaken me for a troublemaker? Of course, there was an even worse reason- that I simply wasn’t good enough. I prayed that the latter wasn’t the true reason. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I spent the next few weeks in a haze; the days consisting of stale revision which I had no drive for, the nights concentrating on drinking far more than I should, before passing out and dreaming of what it would be like to a London Cabbie, earning a living for myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The next appearance date seemed to take an age to arrive. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once again, I arose early and made the torturous journey towards the Palestra. I still felt beaten; the energy sapped from me, my eyelids heavy, my shoulders sagged. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After hours of feeling queasy, my morning of wait finally came to an end. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Mr Jordan, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was called in by one of the friendlier examiners (albeit with a reputation for asking tough points). As I followed him along the still fresh and new-smelling carpet towards the office, the examiner leafed through the brown, cardboard folder containing my file. I’d never seen an examiner study a file so closely, and it seemed apparent that he’d noticed something amiss. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Hmm” he mused as we paced the new walk of fear, “I wonder if you can pass the stage in one go?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Upon hearing this, my spirits soared. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I suddenly had divine visions of being asked ultra-simple questions; perhaps “Trafalgar Square to Whitehall”, “Waterloo Bridge to Waterloo Station” and good old “Manor House to Gibson Square.” Such teasers would enable me answer pitch-perfect, thus providing the examiner with good enough excuse to award me the mystical ‘Double A’ mark; the only score that allows you to pass the stage in one go.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sadly, my daydream was to be annihilated. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After sitting down, the examiner, kindly as always, told me to relax and not to rush or worry. He made no mention of my previous redline however, and proceeded to ask me a number of places in deepest South London.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">With the usual, intense regime of revision and exploring, the points and routes I was asked that day would have been relatively obtainable. However, I’d been slack the past few weeks and my brain felt as if it had been squeezed like a spongy, executive stress ball. I managed to name the addresses of quite a few points, but when it came to describing the routes in between, I was in disarray. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Needless to say; I received a ‘D’; no score. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I felt myself descending even lower.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I sat there in the chair, I began to panic; another three D score like this, and I’d be pushed back a stage; I’d have to do the 28s all over again, and all that after being so close to the finishing line.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My head was lowered and I could feel my eyes itch and my face begin to prickle. Upon seeing my deteriorating state, the examiner seemed to take pity on me. Before sending me on my way, he provided me with a number of study tips, and told me that I would definitely make it as a cabbie. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although I still felt beaten and drained, the examiner’s soothing words helped to spur me on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Shortly after the appearance, I threw myself back into the Knowledge, studying the map intensely and combing the now familiar streets for even more obscure points, ensuring that the road restrictions were burnt into my conscience as much as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Late one night, during this period, I was driving along Bishopsgate, in the heart of the financial area. It was a Friday night, and the roads were inevitably swarming with swaggering drunks; many dressed in business suits as they unwound from a stressful week in the fiscal game.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Not far from Liverpool Street Station, I stopped at a red light. Whilst waiting, I glanced around, making a note of the shops and office blocks in the vicinity. Contemplating a large office block to my right, I noticed a fracas. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">A deeply inebriated fellow was urinating against a broad, glass wall which formed part of the office block’s lobby area. His discharge was trickling down the glass, creating a sort of urinary waterfall. At the same time, the drunk wasn’t bothering to support himself, and was shaking both fists triumphantly in the air, whilst his uneasy body swayed back and forth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Worse still, on the opposite side of the glass, an exasperated security guard was banging on the transparent wall, waving his hands in a doomed attempt to stop the rogue. I dread to think how the guard’s view appeared. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As the light flicked from amber to green, I drove off, thinking to myself that when (if I ever did) pass the Knowledge, I would be picking up such people; having to deal with them in close proximity. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, I didn’t allow this unglamorous thought to deter me. Once on the final stages of the Knowledge, you’ve simply gone too far to give up! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Knowledge students are driven by a fierce dedication; determined to see it through and achieve the ultimate ambition of being one’s own boss, to carry out their role in the seat of an iconic vehicle:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The London Black Taxi.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My next three appearances were something of a blur, each one providing me with more confidence as it passed. Somehow, I managed to score three ‘C’ marks in a row; 9 points. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And before I knew it, I was once again up for my ‘Req’….<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As before, I went through the same routine. Arising on a dark, early morning, ensuring my suit was up to standard and journeying into London by train like a sardine packed in a tin; the sweat from fellow commuters providing the brine. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Naturally, this was all accompanied by the usual feelings of dread and nausea. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After again enduring the torturous waiting regime at the Palestra Building, I found myself back inside an examiner’s office. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner was a very forbidding fellow. As we sat down, he said nothing, instead choosing to scribble down a number of notes in my file which, by now, had become rather shabby.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner put his pen down and peered up at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Good Morning, Mr Jordan,” he announced.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Good Morning, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner stared at me for a few seconds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I’m Mr -----“<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">He announced his name, but I already knew who he was. It was the very same examiner who’d thrown a book across the room and told me that I was no good, so many appearances before.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Yes, Sir” I replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There were no more formalities; it was straight into the points and runs. I cannot remember what they were now; I was in too much of a stupor. However, I do recall the very last run:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Farringdon Station?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Cowcross Street, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner scribbled a note.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“To… East Finchley Station?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“High Road, East Finchley, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Yes. Off you go then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Thank you, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And so I described the route. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, a combination of fear and exhaustion meant that the run was a bit of a mess; I was all over the place, and used lots of back streets and dubious cut-throughs. Finally, I managed to utter the concluding words;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Set down East Finchley Station on the left….”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner peered at me again and leant back; his chair creaking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Hmm… now, if I were a city banker paying good money, you wouldn’t take me that way would you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“So, why did you do it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I… I don’t know Sir. I do apologize; my mind’s not with it at the moment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“How </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">would </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">you do it then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I thought about it for a moment, thankful for the time to analyse my bodged route.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I’d stick to main roads, Sir. I’d use Archway Road…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Ok then,” replied the examiner. “Run it backwards.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And so I did; East Finchley Station to Farringdon Station.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once completed, the examiner said nothing for a few moments. More notes were jotted and I sat with my head spinning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I prayed that I’d done enough but, somehow I didn’t think I had.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner finished writing and his pen clicked shut.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Ok, Mr Jordan, I’m going to pass you today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And that was it. I’d completed the Knowledge of London.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I stuttered something, and I’m not ashamed to admit that my eyes became damp. Soon, I felt cool, salty water streaming down my glowing cheeks. Four and a half years of torment were at an end. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d qualified as a London Cabbie.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I apologised for my embarrassing state.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“It’s ok,” replied the examiner in a fatherly way, his severe demeanour now gone. “Take your time; it’s always an emotional moment.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">He then said,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I think you’ll make an excellent cab driver.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And that made me well up some more.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I wiped my eyes with a smart jacket cuff, the examiner spoke to be in a more informal manner, telling me all about what was to happen next. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once you’ve received your Req, that’s still not quite the end of things. You then have to spend six weeks or so on the ‘Suburban Runs’; a crash course at the end of which there is yet another test!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Suburbs are relatively straightforward, taking you out to places such as Romford, Plumstead, Harrow and Palmers Green. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Their study is very basic, and requires nowhere near as much detail as the six mile radius around Charing Cross; you simply have to learn the main routes in and out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Having said that, there are still around 100 of the blighters to learn, and those weeks you spend on it are still rather pretty intensive. However, the pressure is nowhere near as great; you have passed the Main Knowledge of London and the final finishing post is just about within site.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In my experience, the toughest part of the suburbs was learning the area around Heathrow Airport. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Naturally, it is vital that London’s Cabbies have a firm grasp of London’s major airport and, when on the Suburban runs, you spend a lot of time there; learning the ins and outs of all five terminals in considerable depth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Heathrow Airport is the size of a small town, and it is a vicious, complicated place to get a grasp upon! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I spent a great many nights there, cursing to myself as I took wrong turns and ended up on mile-long roads with nowhere to turn around, the smell of aviation fuel in my nostrils as Jumbo Jets soared overhead, taillights blinking, engines rumbling as the mighty aircraft headed towards places I dreamed to of visiting once I’d started to earn a living for myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I've previously neglected to mention that, towards the end of the Knowledge process, you also have to undertake a driving test behind the wheel of a cab. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I took my test whilst on the first attempt of 21 days….and, despite having being a qualified driver for over 10 years, I failed first time! Naturally that led to more frustration and hair ripping! (Thankfully I passed on the second go, although taking the test twice proved rather costly).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As Christmas approached, I once again returned to the Palestra. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was asked around five Suburban runs and, much to my relief, I passed. I was then told to return the following day, for my passing out ceremony and badge presentation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Inevitably, when the next day arrived, it didn’t feel real. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Arriving at the Palestra, yet again I and about 15 other graduates had to go through the waiting process. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This time though, it didn’t matter. Elation replaced the feelings of sickness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I, and I imagine a number of other candidates there that afternoon too, also underwent a moment of reflection; thinking back to the first time we sat at Manor House Station, contemplating Gibson Square, our various appearances and the emotions and turmoil experienced, the ups and downs of the ferocious Knowledge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">We were allowed guests for our presentation; my parents, without whose support I would never have passed the Knowledge, accompanied me. However, for the first part of the presentation, only the graduate cabbies were allowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">During the first part of our talk, we were congratulated and given general advice on things such as cab etiquette amongst other drivers, ‘the abstract of law’ (i.e. rules governing how we conduct our trade) and the suggested amount of cash to carry in your float. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Our guests- mainly family members- where then allowed to enter the conference room. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">They were congratulated on their patience and understanding whilst dealing with us (now ex) Knowledge Boys and Girls through our apprenticeships. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And then the badge presentation came.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">One by one, our names were called and, as we made our way to the front, there was a gentle ripple of applause.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When my turn came, I stood up automatically; it felt like being called for an appearance in the dreaded waiting room all over again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I arose and, on shaky legs, walked towards the examiner, who shook my hand and handed me a certificate, a paper license and a little plastic bag which was around three inches long, two inches tall. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My parents snapped my photograph, and I returned to my seat, clutching the precious items which I’d just been handed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Back in the chair- and not forgetting to clap the remaining candidates- I peered down at the paraphanallia I’d just received- in particular, the small plastic envelope.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The transparent packet contained an oval shaped, metal badge; green in colour with a thin, gold trim, and a thicker gold stripe running across the middle. Arched over and below the curve of the badge were the words:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“London Cab Driver.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And, through the gold bar in the middle, my unique number was imprinted in black numbering. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My pride swelled. I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally clutching the elusive prize; a small, green, metal badge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In order to obtain it, I’d exhausted myself mentally and physically. I’d been through fear, frustration, humiliation and despair. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d put my family through hell. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d immersed myself in maps and notes by day, whilst trawling London’s roads by night; seeing the city at its best and worst. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I'd spent countless thousands of pounds on my training.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It had been a gruelling process. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, The Knowledge of London really is a superb training programme for potential cabbies. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The vigorous study; getting to know London inside out, street by street, learning every building, being immersed in London’s staggering history and, of course, the eccentric, petryfying appearance examinations, all really do prepare you for the job.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I am proud to have completed </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Knowledge of London</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">, and I wouldn’t change the experience for anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Every now and then, especially when held at lights on Trafalgar Square, I sometimes glance down at the wee, metallic, green badge hanging around my neck. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And I still find it difficult to believe….<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I am a qualified, London Cabbie.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Next time, I shall be giving an account of my first day on the job……</span></i><o:p></o:p></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-72758588209259273392011-07-19T18:12:00.000-07:002011-07-20T16:18:48.343-07:00The Knowledge of London (Part 7- the Final Stages... & a knockback)<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once you reach 21 Day appearances; the final stage of the Knowledge of London, you begin to see a light at the end of the tunnel. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">You’re examined once every three weeks, and the time flows far quicker than those murky days when you were bogged down on map tests and 56 day appearances (having said that, the system is currently experiencing delays, which means those on the Knowledge are having to wait a lot longer than usual; 90 days in some cases. Interviews for new examiners recently took place, so hopefully this backlog will soon begin to clear up).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once you’ve accumulated somewhere in the region of 9 points on the 21 appearance level, you know you’re near the end. If, on your next appearance, you manage to score a C, then that’s 12 points, and you’ve passed the final stage. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Your final appearance is also known as your ‘Req’; that being shorthand for ‘required’. In other words, the examiners are satisfied that you’ve reached the required level of Knowledge in order to qualify as a London Taxi Driver.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Receiving your Req is a magical experience. As the examiner leans across to shake your hand (something which, as a golden rule, they never do before this moment), and tells you that you’ve passed and made the grade, the sense of relief and achievement is overwhelming. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As autumn approached, I was finally on the 21s. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d had six appearances at the 21 day stage, scoring three Cs and three Ds. As I’ve described in an earlier post, you only get 7 goes at each stage. Fail to accumulate 12 points, and you have to start the stage all over again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Scoring 3 Cs had enabled me to scrape 9 points together. However, the accompanying D grades meant that I only had one shot left. As my possible Req approached, my nerves and anticipation became unbearable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My friends, family and fellow Knowledge colleagues told me not to worry; they were all convinced that I would score my C, topping my points up to 12, and thus receive the life-changing handshake to tell me that I’d graduated from Knowledge Boy to London Cabbie. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although tense, I was inclined to agree with them. In thinking this, I was not being arrogant or over-confident. It was simply based on the fact that, in Knowledge circles and the London Taxi Trade, the Req is seen as a formality.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Knowledge students do get red-lined (sent back) on the 21 day level, but this usually happens after a few D scores. Once near the end, and only requiring three little points to complete the process, it is almost unheard of for the candidate to be red-lined. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d been on the Knowledge for over four years by this point and, in that time, I’d never heard of anyone failing when up for their req. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The final appearance is often a straight-forward affair, with simple points and routes being asked. Some students have even been asked to recite ‘Manor House to Gibson Square’; the very first Blue Book run which every Knowledge Boy and Girl knows inside-out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My Req was scheduled to take part during an interesting period of the Public Carriage Office’s history.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After being based on Penton Street in Islington since 1966, the operation was moving to a new location in Southwark; the ultra-contemporary ‘</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Palestra Building</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">’. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This move transported the PCO south of the Thames; actually taking it back towards its original home which was on Lambeth Road, before 1966 (although from the 1850s up until 1919, it was based in an annexe to the Metropolitan Police Force’s New Scotland Yard. A</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">s with the rest of the London Taxi trade, it has a long history).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Palestra is a very avant-garde piece of architecture. Built to house important departments for <i>Transport for London</i>, it is very much a working building; a hefty office block, with towering walls mainly consisting of glass, dotted here and there with pale-yellow panels.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The upper levels are formed of a large slab, which juts out over the lower floors, giving the building a top-heavy appearance. Tucked below this shining mass of modernism, in a corner of the broad forecourt, there is a white, streamlined, pod-like structure, which looks like something out of Stanley Kubrick’s </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">2001 A Space Oddesy. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Here's a Palestra pic:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f0hlvIbl_W0/TiYfOrbot8I/AAAAAAAAABo/e2oZHodAUZ0/s1600/Palestra.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f0hlvIbl_W0/TiYfOrbot8I/AAAAAAAAABo/e2oZHodAUZ0/s320/Palestra.JPG" width="226" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In short, the Palestra is a prime example of early 21</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">st</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> Century London architecture. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Despite the contemporary design, the building’s title is of Ancient Greek origin; a Palestra was an arena used for training wrestlers and athletes. Considering one of the Palestra Building’s functions is to put Knowledge students through their paces, this is rather an apt moniker, and one I'm assure its victims can relate to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Knowledge of London’s sparkly, new HQ is modern, colourful, air-conditioned and a temple to open-plan office space. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Going there for an appearance is still a terrifying experience!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In fact, I think it is actually a more gut-twisting place than the old Penton Street office. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The main reason for this is that the Palestra, with its governmental links, is an exceedingly security-conscience environment. Because of this, you have to go through the waiting room procedure twice! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’ll explain my experience there, and hopefully I’ll be able to convey what the process at the new building is like.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was the day (fingers and toes crossed) of my Req.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The PCO opens very early, and 21 day appearances are usually amongst the first appointments of the day. If I remember correctly, my appearance was scheduled for around 8.30am. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I woke up before 5am and, being October, it was a dark morning. My anxiety had reached drastic levels, and I’d probably had no more than three hours sleep. As I crept around in the gloom, the blue glow of Breakfast Television pulsing in the background to reassure me that the trains were running to schedule, I went through the same routine I’d been through many times before:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Shirt on; buttoned so tight it pinched the neck, the same dark, blue tie with red stripe, shoes soundly polished, hair tidy and brushed, chin void of stubble and splashed with aftershave. Score-card (by now teeming with blue or black biro representations of ‘C’s and ‘D’s- I never scored anything higher) securely packed on inside blazer pocket. Check, check and check again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Travelling into central London on the already packed commuter train, people’s elbows in my face as they sought to read the Metro newspaper in yoga-like positions, it felt as though I were a child about to experience my first day at school all over again. This feeling was nothing new- every build up to an appearance felt the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Despite the all too familiar nerves, I was still highly curious to see the PCO’s new home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It's very easy to get to; Southwark Tube station is directly opposite, which is most convenient. However, that morning I would have preferred it to be some distance away- I’ve always found a brisk walk does wonders for easing a restless stomach! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Arriving at the Palestra Building is rather like entering the lobby of a large, modern chain hotel. The entrance hall, especially first thing in the morning when people are arriving for work, is bustling. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Passing the swarms of people, you make your way to the check in desk, where the smartly-suited staff check your appointment card and provide you with a security badge, which you have to pin to the lapel of your suit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And then the waiting begins.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The first stage takes place in a large space next to the check in desk; an area sporting long rows of sofas; chairs which are soft, yet surprisingly uncomfortable at the same time (although the discomfort can probably be attributed to nerves).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As you wait, other Knowledge candidates arrive. Soon, the waiting area is dominated by anxious, smartly suited, trainee London Cabbies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After some time, a representative from the Public Carriage Office emerges from the upper echelons of the Palestra. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Armed with a register, they call out names of those due up. Candidates who have had the audacity to arrive early have to remain until the next call. Being left behind probably feels rather like missing the last US helicopter to leave Vietnam’s Saigon in 1975.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once under the control of a PCO rep, you are escorted to one of the Palestra’s many lifts. Just like at the old Penton Street office, most of the candidates are too nervy to talk, and the journey is conducted in shuffling silence. Of course, the silence is even more pronounced when you actually enter the elevator; a public space which is notorious for encouraging muteness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once up and on the required floor (I can’t remember which exactly now, I think it may have been the 4</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> or 5</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">), the second round of waiting begins. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">You now find yourself in an broad, open plan office with potted plants, water-coolers and a long set of bookshelves containing magazines, books and periodicals; although I’m not sure if any Knowledge candidates ever feel relaxed enough to leaf through any of these volumes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Similar to downstairs, a waiting area has been set aside for Knowledge Boys and Girls to bide their time in. This new area is slightly smaller, and bears a passing resemblance to the waiting room as seen in BBC1’s ‘<i>The Apprentice</i>’; the ante-chamber to Lord Alan Sugar’s intimidating lair. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This was all rather novel, but the process was pretty much the same as it had been at Penton Street; sit, twitch your knees up and down and experience debilitating nausea. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As always, I had a small canister of ‘<i>Rescue Remedy</i>’ in my pocket, which I would take out regularly, and spray into my mouth liberally. I think it helped somewhat, although it may have just been a placebo. It was probably due to the fact that it tasted a little bit like whiskey that it helped to sporadically calm my nerves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Whilst waiting, I managed to get talking to another Knowledge Boy. He too was up for his Req. In whispered tones, we wished each other luck, and assured each other that our Knowledge apprenticeship would soon be over.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">One by one, the people around me were called in by the examiners. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My turn seemed to take forever, and all manner of feelings coiled and twisted within me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In order to maintain my spirits, a jumbled version of the theme tune from the Sylvester Stallone classic, ‘</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><i>Rocky</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">’ passed through my mind, followed by the ‘</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><i>Eye of the Tiger</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">’ anthem, which was in the third instalment of the boxing movie franchise (and a much better <i>Rocky</i> episode too, cos’ the baddie- ‘</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><i>Clubber Lang</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">’- was played by 80s icon, Mr. T). I put these contemplations down to hitting the Rescue Remedy too hard.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Finally, my turn came. It was the same examiner who had once asked me what his name was. I had no idea back then, but I certainly knew now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I followed him towards the new, unfamiliar office. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Like the rest of the Palestra, the new cubicles were fresh and modern, with smart office-type chairs and walls made from smoked glass, thus allowing a good deal of privacy for you to make a wally of yourself in. The walls seemed a lot thinner though; I could just make out the muffled voice of a Knowledge Boy next door; “leave on the left Strand, Comply Trafalgar Square, leave by Whitehall….” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There were no formalities. In a dead-pan tone, the examiner asked me the first point. I can’t remember what it was exactly now, but it was exceptionally obscure and my stomach froze.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No, how about Oswyth Road?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My brain began to seize…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Tenbury Court?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No..sorry, Sir I can’t see it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My face began to flush and burn, but there was no let-up in the viciously vague points the examiner asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“The Linnean Society?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">By now my head was down, shaking slowly. I couldn’t believe what was happening; I’d been so close to achieving my goal moments before, but I now felt as though I didn’t know a single thing about London.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Albion Walk?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry Sir….I don’t know."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I must have been asked around 15 points of this obscure nature. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When we eventually landed upon two points which I somehow managed to recall, my brain was so pounded, that I made a complete mess in describing the ensuing routes between them. By then however, I wasn’t really bothered; I knew I’d failed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After what felt like an eternity, the examiner etched a ‘D’ onto my score card. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Handing it back, he said that I needed to get out onto London’s streets more; my knowledge of London’s points wasn’t good enough. There was no mention of the fact that I’d only been three marks away from passing, nor did the examiner even tell me that I’d been redlined.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I left the office, I had an inkling how Stallone's Rocky Balboa must have felt when he first fought Mr T's Clubber Lang back in 1982.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I had to make a visit to the booking out desk, where my next appointment would be arranged. Never before had I experienced such a disheartening experience. I was dumbfounded, dazed. Handing the card over to the booking-out attendant, I managed to ask;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Have I just been redlined?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The office fellow put his glasses on and quickly scanned my card, toting up the Cs and Ds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Four D’s… yes, you have.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">With that, he picked up a red biro, and struck a line through my previous marks, erasing several months of hard work in one swift go. It was back to the beginning of the stage. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Taking all stages into account, I’d accumulated 33 points but I’d now had 9 wiped off. Failing to achieve those last, 3 little marks had ended up costing me an enormous amount of time and money. By this point, all I wanted to do was go out and start cabbing; to begin my career, be a working man and achieve some dignity. That simple pleasure had been denied, and I felt ill.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">At Penton Street, you were at liberty to exit the building as soon as you’d booked out. Not so at the Palestra though. With its high security regime, you have to wait until enough of your group have returned from their appearances, so that you can be escorted back downstairs and out of the building. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After my soul-destroying blow, I just wanted to get out of the place. As it transpired, I had to wait over 20 minutes, rocking back and forth, feeling sick. Exiting through the glass wall seemed like a favourable option. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Knowledge Boy I’d been speaking to entered the waiting area, smiling broadly. He gave me the thumbs up and nodded. I shook my head and explained what had happened. He couldn’t believe it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When I finally made it back to the lobby, my father was waiting there, along with a good Knowledge friend of mine who had recently passed. Both were anticipating good news. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I got redlined.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“What?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My cabbie friend thought I was joking. It took some persuasion before he accepted that I was actually being serious. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Walking outside, the Autumn morning was fresh and beginning to brighten. However, my psyche at that low moment was quite the opposite.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">We were approached by the small groups of Knowledge schools’ point collectors. They too were flabbergasted about what had happened; they’d never known it before. When I told them the points I’d been asked, they too struggled to pin-point them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Later that day, when the revision sheet was published, a number of the points I’d been asked appeared as ‘unknown.’ This rare label meant that the points were truly elusive; the point collectors didn’t known them, nor did the Knowledge school tutors. The points had never been asked before, and therefore appeared on no database. Nor could they be tracked down via researching the A-Z or internet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In short, their location was only known by the examiner, and a tiny handful of London’s 7 million odd inhabitants.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’ll never know why I was pushed back at the final hurdle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As far as I was aware, I’d always behaved myself on appearances, I’d never questioned any decision and, although far from being a genius, I felt that, after 4 and a half years intense study, I was familiar enough with London to pass the process. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Having said that, the frustration and tough times experienced whilst on the Knowledge are excellent training. When I look back on it now, I can see why the examiners behave in such an eccentric manner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">They are emulating real-life passengers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When working as a London Taxi driver (indeed as in any job that involves close contact with the public), the majority of people you meet are wonderful- polite, patient, understanding and friendly; just as the examiners can be.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, you’ll sometimes get the odd fare who seems intent on spoiling your day!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’ve had passengers who’ve told me my routes are bad. That I shouldn’t have taken that street. That I’ve added unnecessary money to the meter. Passengers who get muddled up with their location, or who don’t know where they’re going at all. People who test your patience and good nature to the very limit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’ve had people banging on the Perspex divide, asking me what on earth I’m doing. I’ve had drunks mumbling nonsense at me and I’ve had people slump asleep- just as an examiner pretended to do on one of my appearances! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’ve also had the insult which infuriates London Cabbies the most:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“How can you not know? I thought you were supposed to take </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">a</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> test?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Oh, if only they knew!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Whilst on appearances, experiencing the occasional insult or undisguised contempt from the examiner, you behave yourself, bite your tongue and learn not to sink to that level. This acquired skill then transfers itself when you enter the real world of ferrying patrons around.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">You see, as well as being a test of your London expertise, the Knowledge is also an analysis of your temperament. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">To be continued….</span><o:p></o:p></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-35319960733323392012011-07-16T16:44:00.000-07:002011-07-17T15:51:44.832-07:00The Knowledge of London (Part 6- Appearances and studies)<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Many appearances, especially the early ones, were rather bizarre affairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Each appearance lasts for around 10-15 minutes, but that is more than enough time to give your brain a thorough sauté. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On my second appearance, I was in the waiting room as usual, when my name was called. If anything, I was even more nervous than the first time, as I now had an idea of what to expect and had been warned by the examiner on that occasion that the process would only get tougher. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Mr Jordan, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Yes, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">At this point of course, having little experience of the PCO, I had no idea whom each examiner was. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Which is why I was rather puzzled by the examiner’s first question…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After taking our seats, the examiner ignored me for a considerable length of time. At first, he shuffled and arranged several piles of paperwork for no apparent reason. He then proceeded to gaze idly at his computer screen, slowly gliding and clicking his mouse. For all I knew, he was looking at a price comparison website. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I sat there feeling awkward, not saying anything- another unwritten rule whilst on an appearance is that you do not speak unless spoken to. A small, framed photograph of the examiner’s wife, taken in soft-focus, stared back at me from the desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Suddenly, the examiner decided to speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“What’s my name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It took me a moment to register this question. I had no idea what the examiner’s name was; I’d never met him before. All I could do was apologise.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“I’m sorry, Sir… I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Ok” replied the examiner with a smile, “rule number one on The Knowledge- I’ll never ask you anything you don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I nodded eagerly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“So,” he continued, “what’s my name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Now I was truly baffled. I stuttered and apologised again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">But the examiner had already moved on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Highgate Private Hospital?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I rejoiced; it was a nice, straight-forward point.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“View Road, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner made no reply. He stared at me whilst tapping a pen up and down in his hand. His silence and failure to confirm my answer quickly led me to believe I’d given the wrong address. Squeezing my eyes, I began to cycle through the other roads in the area.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Not View Road….” I muttered…. “erm... Denewood road? North Hill?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Highgate...Private...Hospital…” the examiner repeated, slowly putting emphasis on each word. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">By now, my brain was in a real fluster. I had no idea where the hospital was.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Sorry Sir.... I don't know."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“You just said it…” my interrogator stated, “View Road.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Oh….”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Despite this surreal appearance, I somehow managed to score a second ‘C’. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Something similar occurred on my third appearance. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I followed the examiner into his office and before I’d even had a chance to take a seat, he was already barking out my first run.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Right. Elephant and Castle Station, and from there we’ll run it to St Martin’s Theatre.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Elephant and Castle Station is on London Road, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I sat down, the examiner walked to his desk and, still standing, leant over his desk with a puzzled look, carefully scrutinizing a map, his eyes bunched up like a short-sighted person who'd lost their spectacles. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No… that’s the tube station.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">(Just to clarify, there are TWO Elephant and Castle Stations- an Underground one and a British Rail one, more or less opposite each other!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Oh, sorry Sir. It’s Elephant Road then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Still looking at his map and not at me, the examiner simply replied,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No, not that one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once again, my brain began to scramble. These were two major points and, as far as I knew, I’d given the correct roads no problem. But the examiner was saying I hadn’t. With a mixture of dismay and bewilderment, I began to name other roads in the area, hoping to stumble across the correct one.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“St George’s Road, Sir?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Nope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Erm…Elephant and Castle Circus?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No, no… you've already said it- London Road. I wanted the tube station. Come on; let’s get going- St Martin’s Theatre.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On this appearance, I made a number of mistakes; the biggest occuring on a run in which I chose the wrong route to traverse around Hyde Park. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once my runs were complete, the examiner wrote at length in my file. He then gave me a brief lecture, telling me that he’d given me a ‘D’; so no score.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“You can’t be making mistakes like that,” he explained, waving his hands around animatedly. “If I gave you a ‘C’ today and you get another one next time, then you’d be on 28 days wouldn’t you? And you’re not good enough for that yet. Anyway, take it on the chin. Learn from it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As he handed back the scorecard, the examiner gave me a quick wink. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Whilst these appearances were odd and threw my mind off track, the examiners themselves were perfectly hospitable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, in some cases, they could be pretty hostile! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On one particular appearance, the examiner took great pride in ignoring me. He asked me the runs and, as I called, he immersed himself in paperwork, neither looking at nor listening to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">At one point, however, he picked up a book… which he proceeded to hurl across the room. Smacking a wall, the book dropped to the floor, clanging a metal waste-paper basket as it did so. I did by best to ignore the disturbance, and continued to recite my given route.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After this agitated display, the examiner then pinched the point where his nose joined his forehead and, with great weariness in his voice said;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“You’re not very good are you, Mr Jordan?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No, Sir… sorry, I’m having a rather bad day today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiner let out an exasperated, weight of the world on his shoulders kind of sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“If I were a passenger in your cab, I’d be pretty, damn dizzy by now wouldn’t I? You’re going around in circles.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Yes Sir… sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On another occasion, the same examiner pretended to fall asleep!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Some of the worst appearances were the ones when you couldn’t answer any of the posed questions. Quite a few times, I can remember sitting there, being bombarded with obscure points, none of which I’d seen, heard of or remembered. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Santa Maria del Sur Restaurant?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Abu Dhabi House?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Ok, how about the Azerbaijan Embassy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Prince of Knowledge Apartments?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Hmmm.... Haverstock Street?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No? Haberdasher Street?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“The Chartered Institute of Public Finance and Accountancy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“*Sigh* Mortons Hotel?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Nayland Hotel?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry, Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Where’s the smallest police station in London?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Luckily that one I did know, as my Grandmother had mentioned it a week or so before!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Trafalgar Square, Sir- on the south-east corner.” (It’s a hollow pillar with a door and window, now mainly used as a broom cupboard, but there is still a police phone in there!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although on the appearance stage, that does not mean your exploration of London stops. If anything, it intensifies. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Yes, you’ve completed the Blue Book but, as I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, that is merely the basis; the bare bones of what you need to know. Right up until the day you pass, you have to keep out there, driving around the metropolis; looking for points, checking roads, brushing up on your weaker areas. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The way I see it, the learning never really stops- even now, as a fully qualified cabbie, I’m always spotting new places and picking up on nifty little shortcuts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There are even a number of Knowledge schools in London, where you can attend lessons and revise with fellow students. The main schools employ ‘point collectors’; Knowledge students who stand outside the test centre (now at the Palestra Building in Southwark) in all weathers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The point collectors are vital. When you’ve finished your appearance, you go up to the collectors and- provided you can remember- tell them what places and routes you were asked. Armed with this information, the schools produce a sheet, usually published everyday around lunchtime, listing as many questions as possible. These sheets can be collected in person, sent by post, or emailed to Knowledge students (for a small fee of course), and are a vital revision tool. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The most important accessory owned by every Knowledge Boy or Girl is a large, laminated A-Z map of London. This, along with the constant driving and scouring, enables you to really get familiar with London’s roads and layout. As time goes by, the image of this map slowly engraves itself upon your psyche. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It may sound corny, but with such deep immersion, it feels like London really does become a part of you. Most students become very attached to their map, spending many long hours with it. I’ve still got mine; here’s a pic:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yc76WaeQs8E/TiIdQU4c3JI/AAAAAAAAABk/PEnqWqHkTNU/s1600/London+Map.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yc76WaeQs8E/TiIdQU4c3JI/AAAAAAAAABk/PEnqWqHkTNU/s320/London+Map.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When not driving, you spend the majority of your time with the map. If you have a call over partner (a fellow Knowledge student with whom you revise), you meet up and, using the recently collected point sheets, take it in turns to call runs whilst your friend draws your route on the laminate map with a chunky whiteboard marker. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once the route is recorded, you spend time discussing it; “you could have tried this”, “do you think this street is more direct?”, “you wouldn’t use that route in rush hour,” and so on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was lucky enough to have two call over partners but, when alone, I would call over solo; recording my runs into a Dictaphone, then playing it back, listening to my strangely unfamiliar voice, drawing the route I’d described onto the map- before promptly tearing my hair out when I’d discovered I’d gone the wrong way!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When you study the Knowledge, it consumes your life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">You eat, breath and sleep it. I’d frequently have dreams (or nightmares?) about roads and maps, dreams about being in a taxi, driving passengers around . <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">So intense is the Knowledge process, that it actually makes your brain grow (although I hasten to add, that is not in the style of the bulging head as sported by the ‘</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Mekon</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">’ in the '</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Dan Dare'</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> comic strip. The growth is cellular and microscopic!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The part of the brain in question is known as the ‘Hippocampus.' This name comes from the ancient Greek phrase for 'sea monster'; something which, with its curved, sea-horse like shape, this area of the brain somewhat resembles. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Hippocampus deals with navigation and, when you plunge yourself into studying London’s streets, this section of grey matter is exercised like a muscle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Whilst studying the Knowledge, I actually took part in a study related to this. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Responding to an appeal for volunteers, I went along to the National Hospital for Neurology in Bloomsbury. After taking part in a series of memory and navigation exercises, I was slid into a brain scanner; a long, narrow tube, bathed in a dark, purplish-blue light. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I lay there with my feet poking out, huge magnets rotated around my head, mapping my brain. The magnets created such a loud, grating roar, that I was required to wear ear-plugs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was a claustrophobic experience, but having the opportunity to view snapshots of my brain was utterly fascinating! You can read more about the study of cabbie’s brains at the following link:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.wellcome.ac.uk/News/Media-office/Press-releases/2008/WTX050443.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">http://www.wellcome.ac.uk/News/Media-office/Press-releases/2008/WTX050443.htm</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">To be continued….</span><o:p></o:p></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-36540736562943989802011-07-16T09:21:00.000-07:002011-07-16T09:21:06.239-07:00The Knowledge of London (Part 5- Appearances)<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The ‘Appearance’ stage of The Knowledge of London process is a long, drawn-out, nerve-wracking affair.</span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Unless they are a Knowledge genius, the average candidate will have to go through many appearances before they are considered good enough to drive a taxi, and are awarded with their little green badge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I personally had to undergo 27 appearances.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When on appearances, there are three stages:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">56 Days<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">28 Days<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">21 Days<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">These numbers indicate the number of days between each appearance. So, as you progress and your Knowledge increases, the examiners will test you on a more frequent basis. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">For each appearance, you are awarded a mark- an A, B, C or D.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">An A is worth 6 points, a B 4 points, and a C 3 points. If you get a D, that’s null point! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As you go along, hopefully scoring, the points add up and, once you’ve accumulated 12 marks, you are moved onto the next stage (“receiving your drop” as it’s known in the trade). C’s and D’s are the most common marks. So, say for example you had four appearances in which you scored a C, that would equal 12 marks, and you’d move on to more frequent exams. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There is an almost mystical ‘Double A’ award, which allows you to pass a stage in one go, but these are ultra-rare, the sort of thing you’d imagine Indiana Jones to covet! I’ve only ever heard of two or three people gaining that score.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I mentioned a moment ago, you have to accumulate 12 marks in order to progress…. However, there is a potential stumbling block- you only get 7 attempts in which to earn them. If, after 7 appearances you have not scored the required amount, you are ‘red-lined’. This means you have to begin the stage all over again; back to the drawing board, start from scratch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Red-lining is very common (it happened to me, as I’ll talk about later). As you can imagine, being red-lined is soul destroying. It makes your tenure on the Knowledge even longer, your goal seem even more remote. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">If you get red-lined twice in a row (which does happen), it’s even worse, as you’re pushed back another stage! So, for example, you could be on 28 days, hoping to have the 21 day stage in your sights soon. However, get two red-lines on 28s, and it’s back to 56’s! If you get red-lined twice on the 56 day stage, then its back to the preliminary written, map test!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Appearances create all manner of feelings and emotions; fear, bafflement, frustration and despair to name but a few. If you score, they are also capable of producing huge joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, the majority of my appearances were held at the old PCO offices on Penton Street in Islington. Every visit to that place was a gut-wrenching affair. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The appearance begins before you even leave home- you have to ensure that you are immaculately groomed and in your smartest suit; every single exam has to be treated as a job interview. Candidates can be refused their appearance if they do not look dapper enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once at Penton Street, you had to go up to the main reception desk and gain permission to go up to the Knowledge department. I remember once having a very early morning appearance. It was a dark winter morning, with water sluicing down thrown the chilly air. Eager to get into the warmth, I pushed the door open and walked in. I was promptly thrown back out by one of the PCO’s less cheerful employees.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“We’re not open yet; that’s why the sign on the door says closed.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The sarcasm in her voice was heavier than the rain outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Oh… but the door was open.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The woman tutted and rolled her eyes… but I didn’t respond further and went back out into the cold. At the PCO, you have to be on your best behaviour; any attempt to question or complain is viewed as trouble making, and can lead to you having an even tougher time on the Knowledge. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once allowed in, you had to trudge up several floors; often with numb legs and a sick feeling in the stomach. You then reported to the ‘Knowledge booking in’ window, where you presented your little score card. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The reception desks at the PCO all looked rather authoritarian, with their heavy wooden surrounds, and stern, black and white placards. Once booked in, you walked out, around the corner and into the waiting room. On the way, you passed a snack-vending machine, but at this stage food would be the last thing on your mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The waiting room was very similar to that of a dentist’s. It was narrow, with chairs on each side and a coat-stand in the corner. The air was always very overpowering; a thick, sickly sweet smell caused by over-zealous air-freshener use. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The wall that ran parallel to the corridor outside was completely covered in a huge map of the Greater London area. This was an awful psychological torment; it made you realise the enormity of your task, and always threw up doubts in your mind. You’d often find yourself glimpsing at it, catching sight of a tiny street or road and thinking… can I turn right out of there? Is that one-way? What’s the name of that hotel near there? And so on. A lot of Knowledge students preferred to sit with their back to this giant chart. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The waiting room was always an intense place, it felt as though the walls had absorbed the accumulated fears of all knowledge boys and girls who’d passed through. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Candidates were often silent; there was very little talk and, even if there were chatter, it was very hushed. Most people sat, growing numb, looking down at the worn carpet, nervously jiggling their knees up and down. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I once saw one poor soul clasp his mouth and hurry over towards the toilets, which were thankfully opposite the waiting room’s door. (However, using the toilet was risky after you’d booked in- if you answered a call or nature, or indeed felt the need to vomit, you’d better hope that your name wasn’t called whilst you were in the lavatory. If you weren’t in the waiting room upon being called, the examiner could refuse to see you that day).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As you sat waiting, an examiner would appear at the door every so often and call a name. There are around 12 examiners at any one time, and they are a very varied bunch. Some are cold, calculated and down-right scary! Others are extremely friendly and helpful (although, strangely enough, they’re the ones who seem to ask the toughest questions!) One or two seem to enjoy playing the odd practical joke. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Hearing your name called was always guaranteed to get the adrenalin going. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Upon being summoned, you’d answer “yes Sir/Madam”, and be up like an automaton. You’d then follow the examiner down the corridor…. aptly nicknamed ‘</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Corridor of Fear'</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> by Knowledge students, due to the inevitable feeling one felt whilst walking along it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Some examiners would use the journey along the Corridor of Fear</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">to create intimidation. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I remember on one of my early appearances trying to keep up with the examiner as he briskly hurried all the way to the end of the stretch. Along the way, there were several fire doors, which he took great delight in letting swing back in my face as he breezed through them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On another Corridor of Fear walk, an examiner asked me for my scorecard as I stood up in the waiting room. In order to keep the precious card clean and tidy, I’d made a small plastic wallet in which to keep it. Having seen that I’d taken this precaution and clearly cared about the scorecard’s condition, the examiner proceeded to grip the card in his hand and scrape it along the wall, all the way to his office. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On another walk, the examiner in front of me decided to take his time ambling very slowly. His lethargic pace threw me, and I ended up treading on the back of his leg! I was horrified, and mumbled apologies all the way to his office. Needless to say I was awarded with a ‘D’ that day!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The examiners’ offices were, unsurprisingly, foreboding places. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Each one contained a large, dark wooden desk behind which the examiner sat, emulating the sort of feeling you’d have if you were a badly behaved schoolchild, and had been sent before the Headmaster. The desks contained an upright board; a sort of book stand, upon which the examiner would often have a London map book perched. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I've drawn the sketch below in order to give you some idea of what the Knowledge student's view is like when on an appearance (please note, the examiner in the drawing is not based upon anyone in particular!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f80XJ8QJdDk/TiG2weA-M3I/AAAAAAAAABg/ZLOuCXubr_Q/s1600/Knowledge+Examiner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f80XJ8QJdDk/TiG2weA-M3I/AAAAAAAAABg/ZLOuCXubr_Q/s320/Knowledge+Examiner.JPG" width="317" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As the Knowledge candidate, you had to perch on a small, uncomfortable chair. Moving or re-arranging the chair is forbidden. On one particular appearance I experienced, the examiner had placed the chair about three times further from its usual spot; right at the other end of the room. This ensured that I struggled to hear him, and I had to crane forward and raise my voice when speaking; very awkward indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On my very first appearance, I struck lucky. Naturally, I won’t mention any names, but this particular examiner was very popular with the Knowledge students. She was fair, friendly and good at putting you at ease. After an informative, introductory talk, the examiner said:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“As it’s your first one, we’ll go easy on you. Be warned though, it will become tougher… OK, let’s see how you get on.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I watched as the examiner slowly leafed through a book of points. The anticipation was unbearable and my mouth had quickly turned dry. Suddenly, the examiner said:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“We'll start at Grafton Square.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I froze…. And my spirits sunk. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">For the life of me, I could not place Grafton Square (I kick myself now every time I pass Grafton Square- it’s just north of Clapham Common).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I looked down, shaking my head…suddenly realising that perhaps I wasn’t cut out to pass the Knowledge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“No… sorry, Ma’am.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“How about Maritime House?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Again I froze… my brain became fuddled. An image presented itself to me… ‘Sea Container House’; the one that overlooks the Thames… no, that’s the wrong one. Then, amazingly, something clicked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Maritime House is on Old Town, Clapham Common, Ma’am.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Yes. And from there, let’s run it to the Caesar Hotel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“That’s Paddington, Ma’am… Queens Gardens.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Ok, off you go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">So that was my first appearance run; Maritime House to one of Paddington's many hotels. As I called the run, I felt light headed, and wasn’t even sure if the words were coming out of my mouth…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Leave Maritime House on the right Old Town, forward the Pavement, forward North Street, forward Silverthorne Road, left Broughton Street, right Queens Town Road, comply Queen’s Circus, leave by Queenstown Road continued, forward Chelsea Bridge…. “ And so on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I called the run, the examiner peered over the top of her glasses at the map in front of her. As she did so, she picked up a piece of string, stretching it over the map, checking I was taking the straightest, most direct route possible. At other points, she would jot down notes in my file especially, I imagine, to record my weaknesses and places which I did not know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After stumbling through another few runs, I was amazed to be awarded a ‘C’. I was over the moon. The examiner gave me some very kind words of advice and support; words which stuck with me throughout my time on The Knowledge. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, not all of the appearances I had would prove to be so pleasant!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">To be continued…</span><o:p></o:p></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-80977144207977700282011-07-15T14:23:00.000-07:002011-07-15T14:23:36.838-07:00The Knowledge of London (Part 4)<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In my previous post, I wrote about a number of things which had a direct impact on me whilst out studying the Knowledge late at night. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Most of the time, however, I was a mere spectator, viewing the gritty, late-night occurrences from the confines of my cramped Peugeot; the little car offering a kind of ring-side seat to the depravity of late-night London.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">One of the most bizarre things I witnessed occurred early one Sunday morning in Hampstead; probably the last place in London you’d expect to see a violent act.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was driving through North-West London, a few hundred yards from the ‘Royal Free Hospital’. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The ‘Royal Free’ as it is commonly known, was founded in 1828 by surgeon, William Marsden, as a kind of early precursor to the NHS- the Royal Free provided free health care for those who could not afford it.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">William Marsden was born in Yorkshire, and came to London in 1815, at the age of 19, to study medicine. In 1827, he came across an 18 year old girl, lying on the steps of St Andrew’s Church in Holborn. The young woman was almost dead from starvation and disease, yet Dr Marsden could not find a place to take her for treatment. It was this tragic experience which led Dr Marsden to found the Royal Free Hospital; a truly worthy cause.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, years later, as I was driving through the classy suburb of Hampstead, I saw a fellow for whom charity was clearly the last thing on his mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The man in question was wearing tight jeans and heavy boots, but was naked from the waist up; despite it being a crisp, cold morning. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">He was swinging a bat- a bona-fide, American baseball one- in his hand, whilst kicking at the front door of a respectable looking house. A terrified chap was peering from the top window, whilst his tormentor, with a face twisted in pure hatred, goaded him to “come the **** out.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Going all over London at such unsociable hours, I witnessed my fair share of violence. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">One weekend, in the Turnpike Lane area of North London, I drove past a late-night kebab shop. With their boozed up patrons, such establishments are notorious for being flash-points of drunken brawling. Outside this particular kebab shop, I saw a group of four men, kicking their solo victim as he lay curled upon the floor. The attackers seemed to favour the upper area of their prey, and were stamping on his head with much gusto</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Perhaps the worst thing I glimpsed whilst studying The Knowledge was the aftermath of a stabbing. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This occurred one night in South London; blue and white cordon, flashing blue lights and more blood than I’ve ever seen before; enough to coat several paving slabs, treacle in colour beneath the sodium-orange street-lamp glare. I have the utmost respect for those who have to deal with such occurrences on a regular basis. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sadly, stabbings in London, especially amongst youngsters, have become commonplace in the news. Gun crime is not far behind. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I heard gun-fire a few times whilst out studying London’s streets. One particular incident sticks in my mind- I was parked up by a large housing estate, clipboard on my knee whilst I jotted down notes on the local one-way system. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Suddenly, in the still, night air, I heard the distinctive *CRACK* *CRACK* of bullets leaving a gun. It sounded rather too close for comfort, so I chucked the clipboard on the passenger seat and rushed off. As I hastily exited the area, I suddenly became concerned that I may have been witnessed speeding away from the scene, thus implicating me as a suspect in the shooting! </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Luckily, I had nothing to worry about. Gunfire seems to be pretty common in certain areas at night, and only becomes an issue when it actually strikes someone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After over a year studying the ‘Blue Book’, being a witness to London's late-night brutality was to become the least of my worries. I’d finished the 320 runs, and was now ready to apply for the examination process, to prove that I knew London’s roads and buildings. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Knowledge of London examination process is well known amongst those who undertake it, for being a long, drawn-out, stressful, frightening process, and I was dreading every moment of it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The thing to remember about the Blue Book is that it is a basis; a tool to get you exploring every required inch of London. Sure, it contains certain routes- such as ‘Manor House to Gibson Square’ or ‘Carlton Vale to Oakwood Court’, but these are mere stabilisers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">By the time you’ve completed the Blue Book and the ¼ mile radii, you should have a reasonable grasp of London; the idea is to get the map in your head. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On an exam- or ‘Appearance’ as it’s known in the trade- it is very, very rare that you’ll be asked a straight-forward Blue Book route. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In most cases, an examiner will give you any two points in London- no matter how obscure- and, using the map of London etched in your head; you’re expected to describe the straightest route between the two with as little hesitation as possible. Learning the Blue Book routes parrot fashion is nowhere near enough of what you have to truly know.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This is designed to emulate the actual job- for example, when you’re at traffic lights on Whitehall, in the evening rush hour, and a customer hops in asking for Warwick Avenue, or Camberwell Green, you’re expected, as a London Cabbie, to immediately know where the location is, and in which direction you have to head. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This is a skill which does not come easily; and it is something which is acutely honed by the examination process which, to put it simply, is an agonizing, migraine-inducing affair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Even before you begin the verbal exams, you have to undertake the ‘Map Test’. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This is a written exam, undertaken with fellow candidates in invigilated silence as you sit at little, wooden school-type desks. On the map test, you are given two maps displaying two ¼ mile radii from London. All of the text has been removed from the maps; no roads are labelled, no buildings or places of interest are indicated. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On a separate sheet, a number of roads and buildings are listed, and it is your job to pin-point said places on the blank map.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">If you pass this stage (and people do fail), then it is time to move onto the real deal…. the verbal, one-on-one exams….<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Appearances.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">To be continued.....</span></span></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-7892349758322163192011-06-29T18:25:00.000-07:002011-06-30T05:00:19.994-07:00The Knowledge of London (Part 3; learning the streets of the City by night)<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Driving through the darkest, narrowest byways, exploring the remotest parts of London, studying The Knowledge late at night and into the earliest hours of the morning, could at times, be a rather depressing, sometimes frightening experience. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Driving around dim, lonely streets in a small car during unsociable hours, one of the commonest problems I faced on The Knowledge was that I looked like a ‘kerb-crawler’; a punter looking to pick up prostitutes.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In some areas- such as Sussex Gardens in Paddington; a notorious late-night, red-light district bristling with seedy hotels- there were large, official yellow metal signs related to this sordid activity. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In most parts of London, these yellow sign-boards announce that a either a fatal road accident, or a serious crime (usually a murder via a stabbing or shooting) has occurred and witnesses are being sought. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, in Sussex Gardens, these signs acted as warnings, instructing men not to kerb crawl, and that undercover Policewomen worked in the area to keep an eye over proceedings. I was often aware, therefore, that driving slowly along a road, in order to make notes of points and restrictions, could bring potential suspicion. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My fear of being apprehended would worsen when prostitutes actually tried to approach me. This first time this happened to me was in South London. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I’d pulled over onto a street which, although quiet, was not far from the centre of lively Brixton. Being a warm night, I had the window wound down slightly. With the handbrake on, I began to make a few notes on road restrictions in the area. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There I sat, with my clipboard on my knee, jotting down a few words. With my head down, I didn’t see the young woman approach my car. As I wrote, I suddenly heard the voice through the small gap in the window;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Got a light mate?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The woman posing the question looked quite ill; her eyes were heavy and red, her hair-although fairly long and blonde, was scruffy and straw like. A cheap necklace hung around her neck, and she wore a grubby, sky-blue jogging-top and loose tracksuit bottoms.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Sorry” I replied, “I don’t smoke.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The woman then crossed her arms, hugging herself and appearing to shiver, despite the warm air. She looked around quickly and said;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“How about a bit of business then?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I suddenly realised her real reason for approaching me. Being a little young and naïve, I didn’t really know how to respond. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Oh… no, I’m sorry” I replied…. pausing a moment before adding, rather pathetically;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> “I’m… just out doing The Knowledge.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The woman shrugged and slunk off. I felt sorry for her; she was clearly very dependent on drugs and I dread to think where her next lot of cash came from.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Another time, I was in Dalston, not far from Ridley Road Market; a bustling and lively place by day. However, this was around 1am and, once again, I’d quickly pulled over at a quiet spot in order to jot down a few notes on the area’s one-way systems and road prohibitions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I wrote, I suddenly heard a clunking noise, as someone attempted</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> to open my passenger door (which was thankfully locked). I looked up and saw a young woman, probably no more than 20, wearing a tight trench coat and large, round earrings. A little startled at the interruption, I quickly put the car into first gear and slowly began to drive off, waving my hand, uttering “no, no.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Despite this, the woman clung onto the door handle, and looked at me through the window with a mixture of pleading and desperation; I distinctly remember her mouthing the word, “Please…” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I glanced over my shoulder to check that no cars were approaching, I spotted a lone man across the road, dressed in a long, leather coat, his hands thrust into his pockets, carefully surveying the scene. I guessed he was the unfortunate woman’s pimp. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">These were the most direct encounters, but I would often see prostitutes standing by the road, attempting to beckon me over. Some would try and walk in front of the car. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although famously labelled ‘the Oldest Profession in the World’, I always found the presence of prostitution deeply depressing, for it often led me to wonder with dread what had driven these young women to selling themselves in the first place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">London’s Ladies of the Night were not the only ones to try and gain access to my vehicle. On one occasion, in Whitechapel, a tall man in a tight leather jacket swayed over and tried to open the door. I suppose he must have mistaken me for what is actually the London Cabbies’ sworn enemy- the illegal night tout; a plain, unlicensed car looking to pick up passengers for a quick- & potentially dangerous- buck. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">On another occasion, also in Whitechapel, I was waiting at a red traffic light (always frustrating late at night when there is no apparent traffic), when a young fellow, not much older than 18, casually walked over to my car, bent down and peered directly in through the passenger window, squinting as he did so. It looked to me as if he were sourcing items to pinch, so I immediately put the car in gear and pulled off. Luckily, the lights changed to green as I did so, but I was quite prepared to go through a red-light in order to prevent a potential car-jacking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Hostility seemed to be everywhere when I was doing the Knowledge by night. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">One evening, just off of Hammersmith Broadway (a popular nightspot, bustling with bars and pubs), I was trying to work out a fiddly system of one-way side streets. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I turned into a little road off of Hammersmith Road, I had to slam my brakes on- a group of four men, clearly drunk and uniformly tailored in jeans and white t-shirts, had swayed out into the road. I managed to manoeuvre around the revellers, despite them hurling insults and abuse as I did so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I trundled up the road, I heard shouting and, glancing in my rear-view mirror, I discovered that the inebriated group had decided to give chase! </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although tanked up on booze, they were still quite capable of running, and were pounding up along the road after me, barking what were clearly insults, despite being too thuggish and slurred to understand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Luckily, my trusty little Peugeot didn’t give up on me and, using the little knowledge of the area which I’d already acquired, I managed to fiddle my way out of the one way system and back out onto the safety of a main road! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Another time, around midnight, I was driving along Sanford Street; a long road which runs through New Cross, and is mainly populated with industrial sites. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Just off of, and clearly visible from Sanford Street, there is a large mural on a road called Cold Blow Lane (the notorious Millwall F.C used to have their stadium at the other end of Cold Blow Lane). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Painted at the height of the Cold War in 1983, the mural, which takes up the entire side of a house, is entitled </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">‘Riders of the Apocalypse’</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">, and depicts Maggie Thatcher, Michael Heseltine (defence secretary at the time), Ronald Regan and the then Soviet Premier, Yuri Andropov, all straddling nuclear cruise missiles as they brazenly jockey around the world. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Here's a snapshot (note; Ronnie Reagan's off camera!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PsRKWXVestw/TgvFHoJ9k0I/AAAAAAAAABc/hMJUG9_l4l8/s1600/Riders.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PsRKWXVestw/TgvFHoJ9k0I/AAAAAAAAABc/hMJUG9_l4l8/s320/Riders.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although this unexpected mural lends a pleasant charm to the area, that is where the list of things to see and do on Sanford Street ends. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Maybe I’m biased, but I’ve never associated positive things with Sanford Street. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In 2008 for example, on Sterling Gardens, a small road off of Sanford Street, two French students were brutally robbed and killed; their small, rented house set on fire afterwards in a bodged attempt to cover up the evidence. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This was one of the most vicious murder cases in recent London history, and when I first heard about this awful story, I wasn’t surprised.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Sanford Street quarter is, to put it simply, a diobolical place. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Another example of this area’s bleak history is the ‘New Cross Fire’, which occurred about ¼ a mile away from Sanford Street on New Cross Road itself, in January 1981. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The fire took place at a house party, killing 13 young black people. Nobody has ever been convicted of its cause, but much evidence points to the blaze being the result of a racially motivated arson attack. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">* * * </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I mentioned a moment ago, I was driving along Sanford Street one evening at around midnight. At the northern end of the road, there is a railway bridge, and Sanford Street dips a little in order to pass below it; the cutting creating embankments on both sides. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I approached the bridge, I spotted a gang of around seven kids- and they were kids; nobody in the bunch of scallywags appeared to be older than 13 (remember… this is around midnight!)- loafing around on the left embankment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The next thing I clocked was the lump of breezeblock lying in the middle of the road, right beneath the bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I drove closer, a young lad from the embankment youth club waddled down towards the road and headed for the breezeblock chunk. Picking up the grey brick, he did an audacious dance in the middle of the road, wriggling his tracksuit-clad torso from side to side. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Having commenced this ritual, the little sod proceeded to run up onto the opposite bank as my vehicle approached. There were no roads to turn down, and a U-turn wasn’t a sound option. I had to drive towards the ambush. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I deliberately slowed the car, in order to bamboozle the youngster’s expectations. Then, as he raised his arm to hurl the missile, I put my foot down, quickly increasing speed (and probably sending quite a shock through the system of my little Peugeot!) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I heard a clacking sound as the breezeblock exploded into gritty pebbles behind me. Glancing in my rear-view mirror, I saw the wee assailant back in the middle of the road, re-commencing his war-dance, his fingers held up in the predictable ritual of the ritual V-sign. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The breeze-block throwing incident was nowhere near the worst thing to happen during Sanford Street’s history, but it made me wince to think what would have happened if the rocky lump had managed to smash my driver’s window. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">With the end of the Cold War, some would say that the apocalyptic mural beside Sanford Street is redundant.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Personally, I think it’s still very apt; a sound representation of the lurking terror and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">destructively cruel nature which still stalks this p</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">articular area of London.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">To be continued...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-83131894246284854302011-06-23T17:27:00.000-07:002011-06-23T17:27:19.622-07:00The Knowledge of London; Training to be a London Cabbie (Part 2; the early stages)<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was born and grew up in North-West London. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, before signing up to study The Knowledge, I can safely say that I’d never driven a car in Central London before. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In my first Blog about the Knowledge, I described how most students use a moped or scooter to carry out their practical studies. However, a smaller number choose to carry out their driving in a car. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This was the category I fell into, and there were two reasons for this:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">1) I live very close to a motorway; a broad stretch of tarmac which gets me into Central London very quickly. Unfortunately, British law does not allow smaller engine vehicles such as mopeds or scooters to use these fast roads.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">2) I thought I’d be a lot safer on London’s roads if I was enclosed by four metal panels! I have a lot of respect for people who ride around London on two-wheeled contraptions; that takes guts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When I was a baby, my father- a carpenter by trade- used to ride a bicycle into Central London to attend the various building sites he was employed on. One morning, he was hit and knocked off of his bike at the notorious Marble Arch junction. Although he thankfully sustained no serious injury, hearing that story when I was older made me apprehensive about riding around Town in such a vulnerable manner! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">So, although I knew using a car to study the Knowledge would add extra expense, I went to the bank and took out a small loan in order to buy one. The vehicle I purchased was a little, blue Peugeot 106; second hand. It was an ex-courtesy car and, as such, was in good condition with little mileage on the clock. Those conditions changed of course after its stint on the Knowledge!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once I had my trusty little motor, I thought it would be a good idea to give London-driving a go before starting my Blue Book runs for real. So, early one Sunday morning, around the time of my acceptance interview, I decided to take the car out for a spin. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was a very liberating experience. I set out at about 5.00am, the sort of time when the dawning sky looks like a giant bruise; all purplish, dark-yellows. Before long, I found myself in the deserted centre of London.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although it sounds like a clichéd comparison, the roads that morning really were like the opening scene in Danny Boyle’s 2002 film, '</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">28 Days Later'</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">; the post-apocalyptic film in which a young man awakes in an abandoned hospital- the seemingly sole survivor of a rabid plague- and proceeds to wander the eerily deserted streets of London. (This famous sequence of course owes much to John Wyndham’s fantastic 1951 novel, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Day of the Triffids</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I felt like I had London to myself; I drove along Piccadilly (the world-famous neon signs were flashing and flickering away, although nobody was there to see them or be influenced by their advertising), down towards Trafalgar Square (just me and a chilly, stony Nelson high up on his plinth) and along Fleet Street (the bustling commuters replaced with empty, rolling beer bottles, and scraps of paper shifting in the breeze). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, my monopoly over the city came to an end as I approached one of my favourite London landmarks; the gorgeous St Paul’s Cathedral. As I approached the famous icon, the road narrowed and chicaned; a feature of the ‘Ring of Steel’; a restrictive system of barriers and obstacles slung around London’s financial district during the 1990s in response to IRA attacks, and still strictly enforced. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I slowed my little Peugeot, a Policeman stepped out and ordered me to halt. Although I would later be stopped numerous times by the Metropolitan Police during my time on the Knowledge, this was the first time I’d encountered such a situation, and I had no idea what to expect. A little panicked and thinking I’d done something wrong, I scrambled for the cheap, plastic window lever and turned it quickly, the glass shuddering down into the door. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The policeman; not much older than me, looked into my vehicle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Good morning, Sir…. May I ask where you’ve come from this morning?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I told him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“And where are you heading?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The first question was easy. This one threw me…for I had no destination!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Well… nowhere to be honest,” I replied, trying my best not to sound too dodgy. “I’m going around in circles. I’ve just started the Knowledge, and am having a drive around.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As soon as I mentioned the magic word, ‘Knowledge’, the young Policeman’s expression changed and he tapped the roof of the car with his gloved hand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Oh, OK, no problem. Off you go then, and good luck!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The following week I set out to begin my Knowledge proper. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Again, I set out early on a Sunday morning. However, as I mentioned in my previous Blog, I didn’t know where Manor House, the famous Knowledge starting block, was! Sure, I’d seen it on the A-Z map, but it looked far too tricky to reach from where I lived. The beginning of the second run; Thornhill Square looked far easier to reach as it wasn’t too far from the Euston Road; part of a major artery which cuts through Central London. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">With the streets to myself, I trundled around in my Peugeot, jotting down lots of scrawny notes. There were a bewildering number of road restrictions; mainly one-ways and streets blocked with gates (something, as I now know too well, that this area of Islington is famous for!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I did my best to think about how I’d work around these obstacles, and it felt rather like a giant game of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Cat and Mouse</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> between myself and the local Council responsible for this jumble of constraints. It was good practice, because every working day now feels like this!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Alongside this, my brain did its best to comprehend the array of points (places of interest) in the ¼ mile circle. To this day, I can still remember St Andrew’s Church, West Islington Library, the Marathon Ethiopian Restaurant, the Cally Swimming Pool and the RIGPA Buddhist Centre on Caledonian Road to name but a few. A lot of places which you discover and commit to memory on the Knowledge may sound obscure, but customers do ask for them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I then drove the route to Queen Square, near Great Ormond Street Children’s hospital (I’d studied the run alongside the map the night before). As I drove the route, I noted each road and did my best to recite and remember it, to see the streets in my head. Just to make sure, I drove the route another two times, burning it into my memory! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The next time I went out, I felt a little more confident, and was able to find Manor House and carry out the first run. In the Manor House area, I have a vivid memory of stopping the car on a small side road to get out stretch my legs in the early morning air. I swung my foot out, placed it on the pavement…. And trod directly into a soft mound of dog muck. I’m not sure whether or not this was a good luck omen, but it was certainly an inconvenience. I had to remove my trainer and wrap it in a plastic bag, which I was lucky enough to have in the boot of the car. I then continued my driving, operating the accelerator pedal with my besocked foot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I soon settled into a routine. At the time I started the Knowledge, I was working in a department store, and I would do as much London driving as I could early on weekend mornings. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Whilst at work, I would often carry written copies of my latest runs in my pocket, and would take every spare moment I could (often unofficially, by sneaking a trip to the warehouse), to unfold the crumpled paper and recite the routes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sometimes I would be on checkout duty and, during quiet periods when there were no customers to serve, I would take a scrap of paper and draw the ¼ mile circles and routes in between as I saw them, attempting to replicate the intricate London roads and all of the one-ways, restrictions and points which they contained. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After a few months, I decided to switch from driving early in the morning, to driving late at night; usually between around 10pm and 2am. Around this time, my family offered to help me through the Knowledge, and I was able to quit my full time job. I must say, I could not have carried out my studies of London without the support of my parents, and it is something for which I’m eternally grateful. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Studying full time allowed me to truly absorb myself in London. During the day, I would recite my runs, using a chunky marker pen to draw the routes on a large, laminated map of London (something which all Knowledge students will be familiar with). The map of London became a close companion, and I would keep it on display at all times. I spent hours absorbed in it, and there was always something new to find. I wrote countless pages of notes on road restrictions and points, I drew maps and stuffed several folders with paperwork. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It would often make my head throb but, as the runs went by, I gradually began to gain some understanding of London’s road system, piecing the huge area together in my mind, bit-by-bit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Driving the runs late at night was good in a practical sense. It offered constantly traffic-free roads, and a quick journey between home and Central London. The darkness of night was no problem; London is well lit, although in my mind’s eye, my memory often recall the streets bathed in a dull, electric-orange sodium light! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">With most major cities, the hours of darkness can bring about a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Jekyll and Hyde </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">type transformation, and London is certainly no exception. Although driving at night offered roads free of traffic and congestion charges, it also enabled me to see the place at its worst....<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">To be continued.</span></span></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-87152137469222892122011-06-21T03:57:00.000-07:002011-06-21T03:57:56.793-07:00The Knowledge of London; Training to be a London Cabbie (Part 1)<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">A question I’m sometimes asked by passengers in the taxi is “How long did it take you to pass?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">By this, they mean how long did it take to pass ‘The Knowledge of London’ (usually shortened to ‘The Knowledge’), the process of study and examination which you’re required to pass before you’re allowed to drive a famous London Taxi. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The answer to this question depends on the individual and the era in which they passed. Personally, it took me 4 ½ years which is currently about the average (although I’ve known some who were a lot quicker and others who are still stuck on the process).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although I get asked this question, those who enquire often have little idea what studying the Knowledge actually entails, and there are many more people who have no idea that we have to take such a test at all! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Licenced London Taxi Drivers are required to know every road and place of interest in the main London area; that is anywhere within a six mile radius of Charing Cross (a major railway station just up from Trafalgar Square, before which lies the official centre of London).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although Licenced Taxis in London date back to the time of Oliver Cromwell, the requirement of studying this vast area is a relatively recent one- it was only introduced during the Victorian Era; in the 1850s! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In 1851, the ‘</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Great Exhibition</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">’ was held in London’s Hyde Park. In those days, Great Britain boasted a huge Empire, upon which the Sun famously ‘never set’, and London was at the centre of that mighty power.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Great Exhibition was intended to be a celebration of all that was British and all that was part of the Empire; a massive showcase for Victorian technology, engineering and innovation. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G2vYwp2OBbE/TgB05sAOgUI/AAAAAAAAABU/2S9zX0OnI4I/s1600/The+Great+Exhibition.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G2vYwp2OBbE/TgB05sAOgUI/AAAAAAAAABU/2S9zX0OnI4I/s320/The+Great+Exhibition.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Housed in a vast hall, constructed from cast-iron and glass (depicted in the above illustration), The Great Exhibition was one of the first truly international events; the Great, Great Grandfather of the modern expo, and people flocked from all over to savour its imperial delights.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Events on this scale are a useful way of testing a city’s infrastructure and, one of the main complaints visitors to the London of 1851 had, was that the cab drivers (horse-drawn in those days, of course), had no idea where they were going! (They must have been bad back then- how difficult could it have been to find a giant, gleaming glass hall in the middle of one of London’s main parks?!) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Following this grievance, it was decided that London’s Cab Drivers would have to take a test, to prove that they knew the road system and could transport their passengers with confidence. Apparently, this idea of testing a potential cabbie’s knowledge was suggested by Queen Victoria’s husband; Prince Albert. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Knowledge has evolved and grown since then, although the initial intention of the system remains the same; to ensure that potential London Taxi Drivers develop a solid grasp of the area in which they intend to convey the public. Studying the Knowledge is a very intense process. I shall do my best to describe what is involved, and to give you an idea of what those 4 ½ years were like to live through. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Before you can even begin studying the Knowledge, there are several criteria you must satisfy. Firstly, you have to have a clean criminal record; a CRB check is carried out for this purpose. Minor infringements, such as any points on your driving licence, must be declared. If you fail to do so and the Public Carriage Office (the body in charge of taxis in London) later find out, you’re in trouble! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As well as proving you are of ‘good character’, a medical check is also required. Naturally, the CRB and medical checks have to be paid for; the first expenses on a very costly road! There is no outside financial support for those on the course. If you want to be a London Cabbie, you have to fund the training yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After these requirements are met, you are officially accepted as a student of the Knowledge (in cabbie’s speak, this makes you a ‘Knowledge Boy’ or ‘Knowledge Girl’, regardless of your age). Until very recently, becoming a Knowledge student began with the ‘Acceptance Interview.’ From what I understand, this formality has now been replaced by an information pack, which is sent to the potential student’s home. That’s a shame, because the Acceptance Interview was a good taste of the process to come. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The ‘interview’ was in fact a group talk. I had my Acceptance Interview (and the majority of my exams- or ‘appearances’ as they are known in the trade) at the old Public Carriage Office on Penton Street in Islington, North London. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The offices on Penton Street (which are now the HQ of London’s bicycle hire scheme; the PCO has since moved to the ultra-modern 'Palestra' building in Southwark), were an incredibly intimidating place. On the outside, the building is relatively modern; a typical 1960s concrete office block, built to replace the original PCO which was based in Lambeth. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Despite the late 20</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> Century exterior, the interior had a far more old fashioned atmosphere. The Penton Street office was characterized by long corridors (one of which was nicknamed ‘the corridor or fear- which I’ll explain later), heavy wooden doors and floor lino coloured in a typical institutional grey. If you can imagine the most oppressive characteristics of a typically traditional school, then you’ll be close to getting a feel for the old PCO. Most cabbies who underwent their apprenticeship at Penton Street have rather unpleasant memories of the place!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In 1979, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Thames Television</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> (an old licensee of ITV) broadcast a comedy-drama play about The Knowledge (perhaps unsurprisingly, called ‘</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Knowledge</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">’). Written by the late Jack Rosenthal, the play is fondly recalled by those who watched it and, in 2000, the BFI included it in their list of top 100 Best British Television Programmes. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Knowledge </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">was filmed on location around London, including many scenes within the Penton Street PCO. Although over 30 years old and primarily a comedy, the play is a pretty accurate portrayal of what the training of a London Taxi Driver involves. Jack Rosenthal’s play can be found on </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">YouTube</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sometime later, in 1996, the BBC made </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Streetwise</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">; a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Modern Times</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> documentary about the Knowledge process. Again, this featured many scenes filmed at Penton Street, and the show gave a very good indication of what being a Knowledge student involves. Sadly, this documentary is now rather hard to come by.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Going back to my personal experience, my Acceptance Interview/group talk was held in a relatively large room on the ground floor of the PCO. It was about the only room in the building to have been recently decorated, probably to lure potential Knowledge students into a false sense of security! The floor was covered in a blue carpet, and on the walls, there were several photos of old taxis and their cabmen, complete with moustaches, bowler hats and long coats. There were also several glass cabinets, comprising a sort of mini-museum, displaying antique taxi paraphernalia (such as mechanical taximeters and old ‘for hire’ lights). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">In this room, there were rows of small desks; each designed for one person to sit at. Apart from the lack of a little inkwell in the corner, these desks were pretty much like the ones you’d find in school. Upon arrival for the talk, you were invited to sit at one of these desks and await the examiner who was presenting that day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sitting and waiting there felt very much like the first day at school. There were about 15 candidates, most of us wearing smart suits (vital protocol when a Knowledge student visits the PCO) and, mainly due to nerves, there was silence; nobody said a word (once passed of course, a group of London cabbies are far from quiet!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Although Knowledge of London examiners have a fearsome reputation, the examiner who gave my talk came across as quite amicable. However, he did make a point of insisting that this talk was informal; once past this point, things became very serious and regimented! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">During the talk, which lasted for about one hour, we were told how to study for the Knowledge and provided with a copy of the ‘Blue Book’ (a publication which I’ll explain in a moment). The handful of people who were not smartly dressed that day were let off the hook.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“However”, said the examiner, “from now on, every time you’re up here for an appearance” (an exam), “you’ve got to look the part. We only accept suits- jackets buttoned up. Shoes must be polished. Your hair must be tidy. If you’ve got a problem with that, you can say so now ladies and gents, but you’ll have to walk afterwards.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This comment created a brief, silent buzz, rather like in a wedding ceremony when the gathered spectators are asked if they know of any reason why the nuptials shouldn’t get hitched. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Unsurprisingly, nobody piped up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Satisfied that we were going to play ball, the examiner then moved on to provide us with a little statistic; a factoid which I believe all potential cabbies are told (and, is generally true).It is even mentioned in Jack Rosenthal’s film.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Most of you won’t pass. The drop-out rate is around 70%. That’s the way it is, folks. Some decide it’s not for them; a lot of people can’t handle the amounts of information they have to deal with for this. Once you begin The Knowledge, your life is taken over."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">With that wonderful bit of encouragement, the examiner wrapped up and wished us good luck. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And that was it, we were on our own!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Earlier, I mentioned </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">‘The Blue Book’ </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">which all Knowledge students are provided with at the beginning of their quest. I remember my copy well; a dinky A-5 sized book with fresh-smelling, glossy paper. The cover featured a modern-art type illustration of a smart little taxi, driving through a zig-zaggy representation of London Town. Inside, there were a number of pages repeating what the examiner had just told us. These were followed by lists of the 320 ‘Knowledge Runs’.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was an exciting pamphlet to own, giving the feeling that you were in on a little secret, handed down from generation to generation; the key to mastering London. The little book was also deceptive. It made The Knowledge look like a straight-forward, neatly packaged process… which it certainly isn’t! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The 320 ‘runs’ (or, more accurately, routes) contained in the Blue Book form the basis of learning The Knowledge; they are tools which enable you to efficiently explore every corner of London, thus etching an image of the enormous map upon your brain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Using the runs, the Knowledge Boy or Girl has to physically drive and learn every street in the Knowledge area which, as mentioned earlier, is a six mile radius around Charing Cross.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">That area contains approximately 25,000 roads and streets.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There are also many thousands more ‘points of interest’ (shortened to points) on these roads which have to be seen, noted and committed to memory<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Over the years, the number of runs and the start and end points have varied slightly. However, the fundamentals remain the same. The first run has always been “Manor House to Gibson Square.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Situated next to Finsbury Park in North London, Manor House is a busy road junction and a station on the London Underground’s Piccadilly Line. Gibson Square is a smart, peaceful, leafy square in Islington, built during the Georgian era. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">So, on their first run, the Knowledge student will make their way to the Manor House junction (if they can find it… I couldn’t at first and found it easier to start with the second run; Thornhill Square to Queen Square!) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once at Manor House, the student has to study the area approximately a quarter of a mile around the start point. This means driving around all of the roads in the vicinity; learning the names, noting any one-way roads, and working out ways to overcome any turning restrictions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">There are also points to be discovered and learnt. A point can be many things; a hotel, pub, bar, restaurant, school, police station, fire station, court, place of worship, park, theatre, museum, gallery, apartment block, stadium, leisure centre, a shop, statue etc. etc.; the list goes on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Most Knowledge Boys and Girls tend to carry out their driving on a moped or scooter, as it’s easy to manoeuvre and relatively cheap on fuel. Having said that, I did recently witness a Knowledge Boy on a bicycle; the common Knowledge vehicle of choice prior to the 1960s!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once satisfied they have grasped the ¼ mile radius around Manor House, the student then has to drive the route to Gibson Square. The route, as with all Runs, should be the straightest, most direct possible. It also has to be committed to memory; the student has to be able to recite every road name and every turn taken. So, Manor House to Gibson Square is generally described along the lines of:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">“Leave Manor House Station on the left, Green Lanes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Right: Brownswood Road.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Left: Blackstock Road.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Forward: Highbury Park.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Forward: Highbury Grove.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Right: St Paul’s Road<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Comply (you use this word when you come to a junction or roundabout): Highbury Corner.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Leave By: Upper Street.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Right: Islington Park Street.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Left: College Cross.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Right: Barnsbury Street<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Left: Milner Square.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Forward: Milner Place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Set down Gibson Square facing."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">These routes are learnt parrot-fashion, rather like a child learning their times-tables. Seemingly easy at first, but by the time you’ve driven 320 routes, that’s a lot of runs to recite, and many are a lot longer than Manor House to Gibson Square!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Most Knowledge students recite at least 80 runs a day (often more depending on the stage they're at); a process known as ‘calling your Blue Book.” After a lot of practice, most students can call these routes very fast; calling the Blue Book is a great treadmill for the brain!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Calling the runs can be done at home with a nice cup of tea. However, the real work is done out on the road. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Going back to the run, the Knowledge Student has now reached their destination; Gibson Square. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Once there, they have to repeat the same process they carried out at Manor House; that is to drive a quarter mile around the area, learning all of the roads, restrictions and points of interest. Once satisfied, it’s onto the next run! Naturally, this is a slow and methodical process.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It may not seem like it at first but, after a while, these little quarter-mile radii (two for each run, so that’s 640 of them), along with the longer routes in between, begin to merge together, a bit like a fiddly jigsaw puzzle. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After studying every run, the student will have covered the entire Knowledge zone and will be quite familiar with the area they are required to know… however, that is far from the end of it!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Next time, I’ll be writing my personal experiences of The Knowledge, including the exam stage… the dreaded appearances! </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-47041400049192671262011-06-16T09:17:00.000-07:002011-06-21T01:58:17.681-07:00A Frustrating Emergency<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">When out prowling the streets of London for a fare, you generally expect to pick up people on business, tourists enjoying the wonders of London, or those who've had one-too-many, and need to be taken home so they can slump into their beds with a pounding head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, on the odd occasion, you'll come across a job in which the general rules of being a cabbie are turned completely on their head. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">A few months ago, I was driving along West End Lane; a fairly long road which winds through West Hampstead, boasting lots of fancy apartments, bars, shops and restaurants. Just off of West End Lane, there's a road called 'Broadhurst Gardens</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">'</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">where, in 1962,</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Decca Records</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> had a studio. It was at this studio that a little known group of Liverpudlians named </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Beatles</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">failed an audition. After their disappointment in West Hampstead, the cheeky Northerners managed to sign a deal with</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Parlaphone</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">instead, and the rest is history.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Anyway, a few months ago, I'd just passed the junction with Broadhurst Gardens, when I was flagged down by a rugged looking man in his early 40s. The gentleman was wearing a black t-shirt, his arms boasting a formidable gallery of tattoos. In these art-clad arms, he clasped a young girl in a pink jacket, no older than two.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As he climbed in, I could tell that the man was stressed, but amicable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Royal Free Hospital, please mate."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Is it for her?" I ask, nodding towards the girl- his daughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The young girl is clearly upset; she looks woozy and tear traces are smeared down her cheeks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Yeah," replies the father as we set off. "We were in the play-park there, she fell of a climbing frame and bashed her head... I'm really worried about her; she's gone all quiet." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Despite his obvious and understandable worry, the passenger is very friendly, with a strong London accent. I try to help him relax by asking him a little about himself. It turns out that he met and married a Norwegian woman, and now lives there (and, consequently, is learning the language!) His young daughter was born in Norway. As I drive, we both become increasingly concerned about her; her eyes keep slumping shut, and she looks increasingly 'out of it.' <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">This was a journey during which I found myself cursing the road system of London profusely. West Hampstead to the Royal Free Hospital is a relatively short distance. However, as we strove to get the young girl to a medical expert, we were plagued by infuriating obstacles at every turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">First off were roadworks- the frustrating 'temporary lights' which seem to stay red for an eternity, and only allow cars through in 30-second bursts of green. We had to queue for ages, and I found my fingernails biting into the steering wheel. How I longed for a flashing blue emergency light to stick on my roof. As it was, despite having a sick little girl on board, I had to stew in the traffic like everyone else.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; tab-stops: 118.4pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After nudging through the temporary lights, I decided to take a shortcut. Although this was traffic-free, the privilege came at a cost- the route was a speed-bump hotspot. Every few feet, I had to slow the cab and crunch over high mounds of brick and tarmac; not good when you've got a youngster on board with a suspected head-injury.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As the journey progressed, the concerned father kissed his daughter on the head and glanced at me in the rear view mirror. “She’s very sleepy" he said in a tone; calm yet worried in equal measure. I could see what he meant' the child was eerily quiet, and I was becoming rather concerned about her wellbeing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"It's OK; we're not far at all now" I reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, moments after uttering this promise, we hit a snag. Although the road I'd chosen to take is cluttered and narrow, it's usually very quick and easy to ply thorough. I've never encountered problems along here.... until now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">At the top of the road, there's a hotel. As we approach the junction, a Luton lorry, decked out in the hotel's colourful livery, swings out of the driveway, probably completing a food delivery or beginning a laundry pick-up. The manoeuvre is sharp and dangerous, and even my passenger remarks that was "well dodgy."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I can sense what is going to happen next... at the top of the road, a passenger car has appeared and is now heading towards the lorry. With parked cars on both sides, there is absolutely no place for the vehicles to pass each other. The passenger car keeps going.... and before long, the van in front of us has ground to a halt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">We wait...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And wait...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The man in the back bites his lip and holds his daughter, looking down at her with increasing worry. Although I'm normally a very passive person, I decide that enough is enough. With a strange mixture of panic and anger, I jump out of the cab and walk up to the van-driver's window. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"What the hell's going on?" I ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The van driver shrugs his shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"He just got out; says he won't move."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As the bemused driver says this, I look towards the passenger car- and notice that it's empty, the driver's door wide open. It takes me a few seconds to register what's happening. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I look around the other side of the van and see a man in his late 50s pacing up and down. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Oi! Is that your car?" I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Yes."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"You've got to move it. Now."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The man ignores me. He puts his hands into his pockets and continues to pace, shuffling towards the front of the van where he walks back and forth in defiance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"I've got a sick child in my cab" I explain, "move the car, NOW! Or I'll move it myself!"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The car's driver looks up at me through round spectacles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"That's your taxi?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"YES! I'm trying to get a child to the Royal Free Hospital, MOVE THE CAR!" The frustration is becoming unbearable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The driver slowly looks again at the taxi. He seems to have a moment of clarity, whereupon the absurdity of the situation he's placed himself in becomes apparent. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Oh... er... good for you" he exclaims. With his head down, he returns to his car and reverses backwards. As he clears the path, the van moves forward and I leap back into the cab. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Thanks for doing that, mate" says my passenger.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"There was no choice" I reply, "We’d have been there all day if that bloke had his way." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Minutes later we pull up outside the hospital's Accident and Emergency department. I tell my passenger that there's no charge, "Just get your daughter in there." The man quickly grips my hand in thanks, and tells me his mother's London address if I ever want to pop around for a cup of tea! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I leave the hospital, I reflect upon the vexations of the journey; roadworks, speed humps, near-misses and the crazed stubbornness of the public. It takes me a while to calm down, but as time passes I can smile at the farcical nature of it all. Just as well, because if I let it get to me too much, I'll be needing a trip to hospital myself!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-70647034647582001722011-06-05T16:22:00.000-07:002011-06-21T01:55:05.200-07:00Cab Grumps<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I was recently ranked up at the Tower of London, one of the most famous sights within the City.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Dating back to 1066 and the Norman Conquest, the Tower is one of those locations in London that is saturated in history. As such, it is a main draw for tourists and, because of this, the Tower of London cab rank is one of my favorites. The customers are nearly always visitors from abroad, and they often want to go onto another London attraction.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">For example, a wonderful customer I once picked up here was an ambassador at the Indian High Commission, who had invited some of his family over from New Delhi. Being his day off, he was taking the time to show the group around London, and he was quick to point out and celebrate the merits of London's famous Black Taxis!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">One of the most joyful aspects of the job is meeting tourists; having a friendly chat with them, giving them mini-tours and learning about the history and culture from the places they themselves are from.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Tower of London cab rank is often full to capacity and, as such, you can sometimes find yourself waiting there for quite a while. Cabbies take this time to pop to the cafe opposite the rank, nip to the nearby toilet, and to climb out of the driving seat for a chat and a much needed leg-stretch. You also have to look smart when ranked at the Tower of London- you're always guaranteed to end up in a couple of visitor's snapshots!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Well, the other day I finally found myself at the front of the queue. As I anticipated the next job, a group of three came towards me, appearing to be an elderly couple and their middle aged daughter. As they approached, the elderly gentleman, who was dressed in a long, beige coat and hat of the same colour, gave a slight wave of the hand, indicating that he wanted to hire me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My windows were down, but they walked straight past without greeting me, or stopping to tell me where they wished to go. When parked up on a rank with the engine off, I prefer it when people tell me their destination before they get in, but I'm not offended if they choose not to.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The doors clicked as I released the lock, and the group climbed in, huffing and puffing. Once they were seated, I said "hello" to them, but received no response. The two women sat on the main, rear seat, whilst the husband/father sat on the flip down seat situated behind me. Here they perched, quietly muttering amongst themselves. There were cabs waiting behind me, so I thought it was about time I took the initiative.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Hello" I repeated, "where would you like to go today, folks?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The beige-coated gentleman peered at me through the perspex divide, his heavy breath rasping through the intercom.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"We want the, ahh.... the Noon Inn" (*Please note, I've made this hotel up; I never use real names!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was a chain hotel, with many locations in London.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Which Noon Inn is it, Sir?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The gentleman looked slightly flustered, with the 'I thought London Cabbies knew every location" look crinkled on his face.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Well, it's the.. ahh..."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Waterloo" piped up his wife; "the Noon Inn, Waterloo."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The gentleman paused, turned to his wife and, with rather blatant fury, barked:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"WIlL YOU SHUT UP?!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">So loud was the fellow's outburst, that it made the intercom speakers rattle, and a smothering atmosphere suddenly dropped over the cab like a shroud.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"The Noon Inn, Waterloo" the gentleman growled, repeating his wife's words.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Doing my best to combat the "you could cut the air with a knife" sentiment, I smiled and said that I knew that particular hotel, and it was no problem.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After a few minutes, the group were once again quietly talking amongst each other. Nor the wife or daughter had mentioned their husband's/father's outburst; their decision to gloss over it suggesting that it was something they were accustomed to. In a fruitless attempt to clear the air further, I glanced in the rear-view mirror and asked whereabouts they were from. Upon doing so, the wife frowned.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"What'd he ask?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"He asked where we were from."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"What's he wanna' know that for?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Texas" replied the daughter, who seemed a little more tranquil.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">(Before I go on, I must insist that Americans are often some of the loveliest people I meet in my job. Nearly 100% of the time, they are decent, cheerful, extremely friendly people with a passion for London which I find infectious. The group whom I describe here stuck in my mind because they were grumpy Americans.... an extremely rare thing indeed!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">My Grandfather is actually American, linked to the UK thanks to his long career spent in the United States Airforce. I often mention this fact when meeting friends from the States.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Texas? Fantastic... My Grandpa's American too- he's from Vermont."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The group look unimpressed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Yeah?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">No further comment.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The group continue to chat amongst themselves, and I hear whispered gripes about my failure to immediately recognise the location of their chain hotel (which sports some 40 locations London-wide).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"D'ya remember that taxi-cab we took that time in New York?" asks the wife.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Yeah... yeah, I do" responds the husband in his gruff tone. "You went to give the guy a tip... and I took it out of your hand."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The daughter's eyes slip back and forth as she listens to her parents' thrifty tale.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"That's right; you did... we used that money to go to a movie-theatre. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Chitty Chitty Bang Bang</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;"> we saw, wasn't it?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Did you have enough money for popcorn too?" asks the daughter. Her query is a serious, non-ironic one.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Sadly, her parents cannot remember whether or not they had enough change to purchase a sweet, maize snack.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After a fairly brief journey, we arrive at the requested hotel without any problems. Despite the hostile nature of my passengers, I decide to remain polite and gentlemanly. After applying the handbrake, I quickly get out of the cab and open the passenger door. The women climb out and walk towards the hotel lobby; a process which they manage to complete without looking at me. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I sit back in the driver's seat and pick up my change float. The husband pays me and I hand the remaining coins over. As he clutches them and counts them in his palm, he turns his beige-coated back to me and shuffles away without a further word.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I put the cab in gear and spin the steering wheel, hoping that my next passengers will be a little more civil!</span>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4261547762401190840.post-60958436012858093112011-06-02T17:18:00.000-07:002011-06-23T17:31:05.939-07:00The Chelsea Pensioner<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Hello everyone,</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Let me introduce myself.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I'm a London Cabbie.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I drive a shiny (when it's clean), black taxi around the streets of London for a living.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It's a wonderful vehicle, an icon. The four wheels and five seats which I provide are a sanctuary of sorts; a place where you can climb in and journey around London in peace and comfort. My taxi, like the other 22,000 on the road, is there to protect you from the chaos; the roar of traffic, the fumes, screaming blue emergency lights, the general pulse and swell of the crowd.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Most of the people I meet appreciate this sanctuary. Many like to sit back and relax, or catch up on work and phone-calls.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">A small minority abuse it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">A special group- my favorite- like to use the time for a chat. And this is the best part of my job. I have not been a London Cabbie for very long (although it took me almost five years to train for the job- something which I will cover in future blogs), but I have already met and spoken to a vast cross-section of society.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">And that is the purpose of this blog; to share these life-enriching conversations and experiences with you.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">* * *</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I'll start with an experience which took place a few months ago; the day I met a 'Chelsea Pensioner'.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">It was a Sunday afternoon and rather quiet; a pleasant enough day. I decided to have a drive through Covent Garden; a maze of streets not far from the north bank of the Thames.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Covent Garden was once a notorious slum; a hotbed of crime. Things were so bad here that, in 1749, the 'Bow Street Runners'- effectively the UK's first organised police force, were established, in order to bring some order to the area (as you can probably tell, I adore London history, and like to mention snippets of it whenever I can!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Nowadays, Covent Garden is a tourist magnet; an area buzzing with boutique shops, street performers and cobbled roads. It was along one of these cobbled streets that I was flagged down by a tourist; a young American man. As he climbed in, he explained that the taxi was not for him.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"There's an old guy; just around the corner- in the pub. We've been having a drink with him... he's crazy, been tellin' us a bunch of stories!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I turned into the requested street; an even narrower thoroughfare, I immediately spotted the 'old guy' in question. A frail, but sprightly looking gentleman in a bright, scarlet-red coat which stretched down past his knees. Firmly fastened with a row of immaculate, shining buttons, the coat also boasted an impressive barrage of medals and, upon the fellow's head, there sat a smart, black, three-pointed hat. The gentleman was quite clearly a Chelsea Pensioner; a former long-serving soldier, who now resided at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">As I pulled up, the Chelsea Pensioner bade goodbye to his young American pals. "Take care lads; nice meeting yer'!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I quickly got out of the cab and went to help the elderly gentleman into the taxi. Although frail, he had a surprisingly strong grip, and simply needed help to steady himself on his feet.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"I've been having dizzy spells" he explained as we drove off towards his destination- another pub somewhere in Westminster. "It's the nicotine patches what've been doing it."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"You're trying to stop smoking?" I ask.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Aye... but those patches make me feel ill. And dizzy. Doctor told me to forget about them; said I may as well keep smoking! I'm 87 now... no need to be dealing with nicotine patches at my age."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"You've got a distinctive accent, Sir" I say, "you're from up north originally?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"Aye; from Doncaster... not been back since I were' a kid though."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I couldn't resist asking the elderly gentleman a little about his past. I had to shout rather loudly; the old soldier's hearing was on the wane somewhat, and my taxi's intercom isn't the best!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"I left school when I were' 14. There was a big mining industry in those days of course, and my father told me I was best off going down the pit. I didn't want none of that though so I went straight to the army recruitment office; was in the army by the time I were' 15."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"I were' in Palestine just after the war. I were' shot and injured there. I spent over a year in traction; they used lead weights to pull my bones back into place."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">The Chelsea Pensioner (he told me his real name, but I shall call him 'Edward' for the sake of privacy) then went onto tell me how, in the 1950s, he worked as an inspector at a factory, where ejector seats were made for fighter planes with new-fangled jet engines.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">However, perhaps his most poignant story happened fairly recently. Edward told me about his wife; a lady whom he'd been with for many years and, naturally, loved very dearly.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"She had to go in a nursing home a few years back... she didn't stand a chance. It were' in the news- there were' an accident.... they were given something to drink. The workers thought it were' blackcurrant juice, but it were' bleach. Purple cleaning fluid. Some of them died. She didn't last ten days in there."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Edward has clearly seen some terrible things in his long life, but he's a cheerful chap and we share a joke and a laugh. When we arrive at the pub, I go to help him out, but the door lock is playing up. I have to run back to the driver's seat- in a bit of a panic- I've pulled up at the only place I can; near a pedestrian crossing, something which isn't appreciated by the council and their cameras. If I'm snapped in the action by a sneaky camera, I'll be fined- and the excuse that I was helping a respected Chelsea Pensioner out of the cab won't be viewed as sufficient.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">After some fiddling with the lock, Edward is finally set free.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">Being a sunny day, there are lots of people standing outside with their cold glasses of booze, and Edward, in his bright, red, medal-adorned coat attracts immediate attention. A nearby tourist instinctively raises their camera and clicks a picture. Women lean and whisper to each other, and men stand in mild awe; one hand tucked in their pocket, the other clutching a pint.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">I say goodbye to Edward and watch him as he makes his way through the pub door. Although he's oblivious to the fact he's something of a celebrity, I'm sure he'll have no trouble in making more friends and paying for his drinks!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">* * *</span>Charliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09047379284674937837noreply@blogger.com4