The taxidriving thing has been going downhill for a long time. When I started in October 2006, aiming to gain enough money to feed my travel habit, it was great. There were only a couple of hundred cabbies on the road at any one time, and at peak times we’d be flat out. I worked six nights a week and on Saturday nights the money just poured in.

As time went by, I slowed down a bit. Gave up Saturday nights, then dropped Friday night for Sunday. My two big money-earners gone, but with them most of the drunks, and I got to spend my weekends with my family.

In particular Kerri and I enjoyed our Friday nights, when I’d cook dinner, having it ready for her when she came home at the end of her working week. And the family didn’t have to tiptoe around the house on their days off while I tried to sleep.

Then the Wednesday Philosophy Club came into my life, and I’d stop work about six-thirty of an evening, and be so deep when the class finished at nine-ish that I’d rarely feel like starting up again. Kerri and I would drive back home together, discussing the topics raised in the class. Climbing back into uniform and going out into the quiet streets for a few more fares seemed pretty hard.

On anynight, the late evenings usually consist of sitting around on various deserted ranks, and about two in the morning after being idle for ninety minutes, I’d start to wonder if maybe there was something better I could be doing with my life.

Then I lost my beloved day driver, PeskiePete, to the taxi base.

And above all, there were more drivers on the road, competing for the same business. The government had released another hundred taxi plates. It’s easier and cheaper to do this than to improve public transport, which loses money.

Most of the new drivers were Indians, up from Melbourne, where they were the target of abuse. They quickly became the target of strong criticism here, from the established cabbies, for stealing fares, setting up illegal ranks outside hotels and clubs, passing other taxis en route to a rank. Not to mention the various scams, such as taking the long way to a destination, aiming to hit as many red lights as possible, setting the meter on the night rate during the day, refusing short fares and so on.

Kerri was complaining that I’d crawl coldly into bed in the early morning and do nothing but whinge about the lousy shift I’d had.

It just wasn’t worth it.

The owner wasn’t making any money out of his cab, and he sold it to one of the new Indian “cabfathers”. With it went myself and my day driver Rhys, but when Rhys got up at three in the morning to begin a new week, he found that he was out of a job.

I couldn’t work with people who’d sack good drivers without notice, so I took a regular passenger to the airport, let the peak hour wind down, and drove Betsy back for the last time.

I’ll be a part-time driver now, if anybody wants me, because I really do like cabbing. But I’ve got other things to do now, not least helping to move house and to get back to what I really enjoy – blogging and game design.

It’s been a fun five years, but it’s time to move on.

—Skyring

The State Premiers are in town for a high level meeting with the Prime Minister. I picked up one or two from the Hyatt to take for a short ride to The Commonwealth Club, where a dinner was being held in their honour. Just round the corner, really, but you can’t expect such folk to walk.

The Commonwealth Club is one of those exclusive places dating back to Canberra’s earlier days. Its members include the top public servants – Departmental Secretaries, judges, politicians, community leaders, knights of the realm and so on. Personally, I find it rather stuffy and the food bland, but doubtless it is a comfortable home for the cream of Canberran society.

I picked up some locals as well, from a nearby suburb. Three senior members of the legal fraternity, judging by their conversation, which I listened to with one ear open, just in case they issued instructions to the humble driver.

“I won a prize today!” one of them said. “A weekend at any Australian hotel in the Medina chain.”

“Oh, well done! How did you score that?”

“Qantas puts on a shindig each year for its Gold frequent fliers, and they give out door prizes.”

He went on to describe the annual Qantas travel expo, where the airline rents out a convention hall and invites hotel chains, car rental companies and the like to man stalls showcasing their various products. The Commonwealth government has a huge travel and accommodation budget, and the high fliers often have their fingers on the government credit cards.

This was the answer to a question I’d been pondering. I scored an invitation several years ago, when I became a Platinum member of the Qantas club, and since then I’ve attended several of these events. Qantas pays for food and drinks, and there’s always the chance to win one of the door prizes. I’d dropped down to Gold this year, yet I’d still received an invite, and I’d put it down to sloppy book-keeping, but hurried along for the free tucker, a showbag full of glossy brochures and promotional pens, and the general atmosphere of travel and far places.

So. It wasn’t just Wanker Platinums like I’d been, but also Scum Gold like I’d now become.

This year’s theme had been rather bittersweet for me. Texas!

All the Qantas staff wore fluffy plastic ten gallon hats, t-shirts with various Texan themes (including one young lady who filled out her “Route 66″ shirt very nicely, and if I’d had a few of the champagnes on offer, I might have the nerve to ask her to pose for a photograph with me. Sadly, taxidriving is a profession where the allowed blood alcohol level is zero, and so I’d had to watch the trays circulate without me.

There’s always a theme and a game or two – like toss the hoop over the Eiffel Tower to win a bottle of French perfume – and this year they had a mechanical bull, which wasn’t getting a real lot of wear from the public servants making up most of the crowd. Nor from your humble night cabbie, neither, though a few bourbons might have changed my mind. Some of the younger attendees had a go, but I’m far too old and dignified.

I love Texas, and the announcement that Qantas is now flying a direct route from Sydney to Dallas/Fort Worth was a pleasing one. Not only is Fort Worth one of my very favorite cities, full of atmosphere and style, but the DFW airport is a hub for Qantas’s US partner American Airlines, and it’s a good way to land in the heart of the nation, just one hop away from anywhere.

I’ve visited Dallas twice now, both times making a poignant pilgrimage to Dealey Plaza, but its the sister city of Fort Worth I love most. The Kimbell Art Museum has a gem of a collection and there’s always an interesting travelling exhibition filling the other end of the gallery. The Stockyard District is nicely corny, with a daily longhorn muster, a hokey shoot-out between the campy sheriff and some wildly over the top black hats, and the old stockyards station is home to souvenir shops, Texan eateries, cowboy boutiques and the like, where tourists can happily spend a fortune.

Well worth a visit, by the way, it’s a lot of fun, and I had the best steak of my life late one night at Riscky’s Steakhouse, washed down with a bottle of Lone Star.

The Botanical Gardens are a treat, with a huge rose garden, ornamental lakes with snapping turtles, some grand old trees, and acres of peaceful parkland. The real treasure is the Japanese Gardens, where a small admission fee allows entry to heaven.

Fort Worth distills Texas, in my eyes. Cowtown has the atmosphere, the people and the happy surprise of real art and culture. There’s also various NASCAR and quarter horse and rodeo events, for those less inclined to Mondrian and Mozart.

The sad part of the new Qantas Texan connection is that it comes at the expense of San Francisco, which is, along with Paris, a city I love dearly. When Qantas brought in a direct transpacific flight to San Francisco, I couldn’t stop singing to myself for days. I’ve taken that trip a few times now, and I was on one of the last Qantas jumbos out earlier this year.

I guess that, next time around, I’ll just be forced to fly on Qantas from Sydney to Dallas/Fort Worth, and catch American Airlines to San Fran.

In previous years, I’ve anxiously scanned the little signs stuck up on the exhibition booths. Most of them display details of a freebie night or car hire or something for the bearer of a lucky door ticket, and I’ve always missed out, though I’ve done well for little giveaways of pens and notepads and mints and once even an airliner model.

This time I spotted my number! Woot! A night away in a resort in Perth. Airfare not included. I like Perth, and this would be a great excuse to visit, but I’m saving up my pennies for other things, not least a new house, and instead I’ll send the voucher to a Perth friend, who can treat herself to a free night in a luxury hotel and clean out all the fancy toiletries.

So that was nice. I enjoy these Qantas junkets, with the endless coffee and the light lunch that I go round again for a second serve and the pastries and the pens and the brochures. They might be enticing me to spend up big on travel but, apart from my annual round the world trip or the five weeks I spent doing the Route 66 thing in April, I am unmoved by blatant advertising ploys.

“…and you know what?” my dinner-suited lawyer passenger in the back seat continued to his colleagues, “The place was absolutely full of these jumped-up public servants! They fly all over the place on government tickets and get Gold cards.”

His friends tut-tutted. The elite flying levels are intended for the true elites. The judges, department heads, vice-chancellors and so on who tuck into lamb chops, three veg and sticky date pudding at the Commonwealth Club. The lower classes might dream of Bronze status from the crowded rows at the back of the plane, but it’s the true gold members of society who deserve the perks and the champagne.

We pulled up at the clubhouse portico, and the lawyer beside me paid the fare with a government card.

“Tell your mate,” I whispered to him, “that I didn’t see him on the mechanical bull.”

–Skyring

Sydney cabbie Adrian Neylan’s Cablog is always worth reading. Sometimes his experiences parallel my own, sometimes he just makes me extraglad I’m driving in Canberra, rather than Sydney.

But he’s always readable. He talks about cyclists ignoring the road rules and he struck a chord with me. After kangaroos, cyclists are what I fear most of all.

Kangaroos just jump out into the road, and if they are moving fast, they can crash through a windscreen and thrash around in the front seat. Big powerful animals with claws. People die. I’m not keen on dying. Not just yet.

The thing is that I can’t control or deal with kangaroos. They just happen suddenly.

Likewise cyclists late at night. The ones who wear bright LED strobes and reflective gear and helmets and high visibility kit, they are fine. I can see them and avoid them.

What scares me are the ones riding on the road in dark clothing, no lights, no reflectors, nothing. On some suburban streets – Canberra’s older suburbs have streetlights aimed along the footpaths, not the roads, and the street trees cut out their light – such cyclists are almost impossible to see, and they often don’t worry too much about niceties such as right of way or STOP signs or even which side of the road to ride along.

Far too many times, I’ve turned a corner and discovered a cyclist jaunting along, all but invisible until the light from my headlights hits them at a range of about five metres. Last night I turned into Melba Street in Downer, and there was some galoot in a big black coat on a totally unlit bike. He was a black hole, and the only reason we knew he was there was that he was silhouetted against the lights on the roundabout beyond.

But he knew we were there, and he moved smartly out of our way. Onto the wrong side of the road.

If I hit a cyclist, I’ll be fine in my steel tank. Just a scratch on the paint and a dent in the flank. But unprotected flesh and blood stands little chance against a car. My injuries would be on the inside, knowing that I’ve killed or seriously injured someone, and having to live with this. Someone would get a call from a very unhappy policeman to tell them that their son or husband or father won’t be coming home tonight, and that’s something that would haunt me.

Much as I appreciate a three day weekend – and the probability of further extensions until the cab is repaired – I am in sore need of money to fund my upcoming trip, and the pleasure of leisure is balanced by the the sad thought of my bank balance.

I’ve been reasonably discreet with the news, but I was involved in yet another cab crash on Friday morning. Just after midnight, on the way in to the Alinga Street rank with the city centre full of young folk and the prospect of three hours of work, a young lady made a right turn across traffic, imagining that the green light freed her from the duty of giving way to oncoming traffic – me.

To be fair to her, it’s a confusing intersection, and the traffic lights control the pedestrian crossing, not the intersection, but still, she suddenly appeared in front of me and I was unable to stop in time. No injuries, but both cars had to be towed away.

The insurance will pay for the repairs, but the loss of income over the busy weekend, and likely the busy week with Parliament’s imminent return, will severely disadvantage the cab owner, the weekend driver, the day driver and me.

I’m getting rather cheesed off with this side of cabdriving. In the four years of cabbing, I’ve had more accidents than I ever did in the thirty-some years since I first got a learner’s permit. Nothing major, and one or two were my fault, especially that whole backing into a tree thing, but still it’s not good for the soul. Or the bank balance.

The job itself is a lot of fun. Long hours and short pay, but I get to read books and watch movies and surf the net between fares, and the people I carry are generally interesting. I collected a young lady from the airport the other night, a former Australian of the Year, and she was a total delight. In the middle of summer, she was carrying a heavy coat, and explained that she was off to Canada in a day or two. We talked about travel and Route 66 and the underground culture of generosity and service. There are so many people around who donate time and money to making the world a better place, and it delights me to hear of them. This lady was one, and knew many more.

Famous authors, leading public figures, artists – the list goes on and on. You never know who will jump into the cab. Or the ordinary people who will never make the papers, but delight me with their jokes or their good humour or their companionship in the night. A few days ago, I picked up four young people from a house in the suburbs, heading off for an evening at a nearby tavern. I looked at them, selected CD 1 which is Michael Jackson, and as “Billie Jean” thumped through the speakers, the three in the back seat began doing Mexican waves. I could see the hands rising and falling in the rear mirror, and I giggled happily at the sight. For some reason, we cabbies are supposed to be hard, crusty, unsmiling men, bitter at life and closed up in emotion. Not me. Something amuses me, I laugh.

I like the job. It suits me.

But the long hours and low pay aren’t sustainable.

In the meantime, I’ve got leisure to write, and to declutter. I went through my cupboards and put some stuff up on eBay. I’ll try to clear out a bit each day – the result should be a house less full of junk, and a bank that smiles at me.

An address in Ainslie, and when she came out in a light, gauzey green dress, telling me “Pavillion”, I wondered. The Pavillion is a nearby hotel, not a place for locals to go for a drink, but somewhere for visitors to stay. Bill Bryson, for instance.

But I didn’t say nothing.

It’s not at all easy to get to, and I had to head towards Dickson and back down Northbourne Avenue. When I indicated left to go in to the hotel entrance, she woke up, saying “No, the Carillon!”

Maybe she blushed, but I wasn’t looking.

We sorted it out and I promised to knock a few dollars off the fare. Down Limestone, Anzac, Constitution, and we see a sign saying that Wendouree Drive to the Carillon was closed. Something to do with the secret new ASIO headquarters building being constructed nearby.

So we had to go around the Kings Avenue roundabout – or rather the pot-holed temporary roads that mark the transition from roundabout to overpass – and across the bridge, under Kings Avenue, back over the bridge, and into the other entrance to the Carillon. I knocked off a few more dollars for that – I’d dimly remembered about the road closure from months ago – and all up it was a prime example of incompetence on my part.

The Carillon on Aspen Island is one of my favorite places. A beautiful elegant bell tower soaring white and pure above a small island in a man-made lake, shores studded with monuments, showpiece buildings and grand vistas.

An open-air ninja concert featuring Amanda Palmer – Neil Gaiman’s brand new punk cabaret queen wife – and it looked like a merry scene as my passenger walked to join her friends, green gauze skirt brushing her thighs.

The clouds were darkening over Black Mountain as I turned the cab. Home was a few minutes away, and while I made a fresh cup of moka pot coffee, the skies opened. Heavy rain, lightning, wind – the whole deal, and I was glad that I was tucked drily inside Betsy.

Apparently it was an awesome concert. Umbrellas were not enough to shelter the crowd, and the lofty chamber of the Carillon can’t have provided much of a roof in the wind.

But the atmosphere! Reading Amanda’s twitter feed, it sounded like an incredible, albeit damp, time was had, leading to some monumental hangovers.

Me, I went off to hide in the underground carpark of Parliament House, to ponder whether I could have found any more roadworks and diversions on the way. I’ll be so very glad when they finish the current wave of construction!

I got a call – first job of the day – to a museum. Passenger named David, heading to the airport. Lots of work around, so I was a bit nettled when I pulled up outside the entrance to find nobody waiting. Waited five minutes, fuming at the fact that I could easily pick up a fare, just by driving around and looking for hails, and instead I was idle, waiting for a passenger who had likely jumped into the first gypsy cab along.

I gave up, called in a no-show, and prepared to go off hunting for a real passenger.

There was a delivery van in the Loading Zone ahead of me, and he pulled out first. When the way was clear I indicated and moved out into traffic, just as a man who had been hidden by the van raised his arm to hail me.

“Airport, please!” he said, helping his wife into the back seat. Red remembrance poppies in their buttonholes, and she was wearing a row of ribbons over her right breast. Armistice Day today, and there had been the annual ceremony at the Australian War Memorial.

“You wouldn’t be David, by any chance?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You haven’t been waiting there all this time?”

He must have picked up on the irritation in my voice.

Oh well. At least we’d found each other.

He named a nearby hotel. The usual deal – check out in the morning and collect the luggage on the way to the airport in the afternoon, rather than carry the bags around all day.

We drew up at the hotel and he went inside to retrieve his bags. I turned to the woman in the back seat. “Did you get to have a good look around the War Memorial?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.

This threw me. The Australian War Memorial is very well regarded as an evocative, respectful memorial and museum dedicated to the sacrifices made by our servicemen and women. It is a must-see for tours, and there are always groups of schoolchildren led about, learning of Anzac and Vietnam, looking up at the tanks and guns and planes and trench signs and the photographs of those who never made it home, smiling with comrades in front of the Pyramids, loading aircraft with belts of bullets in Korea, patrolling a dusty village in Afghanistan.

Visitors to Canberra usually talk of what a wonderful, emotional place it is, how they could have spent a week exploring the halls, how the bugler’s call of the Last Post tugs on heartstrings at closing time, the cloisters and the eternal flame a fit setting for the long lines of names.

“We lost our son,” she explained.

Oh. There had been a private ceremony before the Governor-General laid a public wreath and gave a short speech for Armistice Day. Ten new names had been added to the thousands already there. This would explain the Combat Infantry Badge above the medals on her chest.

Her husband returned and I jumped out to help with the luggage. We pulled out onto Limestone Avenue, past the War Memorial where the rows of temporary seating were still being packed away, and along to the airport.

I had Chet Baker on the CD, his jazz mellow in the late afternoon. Tenderly and These Foolish Things. My eyes were brimming as I thought on the couple in the back. They were so very young to have had a son in uniform, a son who must have been of an age with the cadets from the service colleges we were passing now, cadets who piled into my cab for a night out with their comrades, talking about instructors and drills, music and cars, careers and holidays. A son now “lost” but never far from their thoughts and their hearts.

We threaded the temporary roadworks at the airport, finding a place in the clutter of cabs and rental cars. I cleared the meter, said “No charge,” held the door open for him, and lifted the bags from the boot.

He didn’t understand, pulling out his wallet.

“The fare’s already been paid,” I explained.

“What? Who by?”

There was a catch in my voice. “Your son.”

Maccas. It’s a big part of a night cabbie’s life.

Oh, not in the way you might think. Sure, every now and then I might weaken and hit them for a slender latte, or even a burger if I’m low, late at night. Or, like last night, just whip in to use their toilets.

But frankly, their food isn’t good. Salt and sugar and fat and carbs, with solid protein and vitamins kept at low levels. Natural flavour is about zero – what you taste are fats and sugars.

It’s my passengers who are the fans.

Wednesday night, and I’d been waiting on the main Civic rank for the best part of an hour, slowly moving up as the very few non-cabbies left in the city heart emerged and looked for ways of getting home. At last someone got in the car ahead and I was first cab on the rank.

I turn off the light, put my book down and keep an eye out for passengers. Check the mirrors for people approaching from the rear. I’m looking out for people who are staggering drunk, or eating some messy fast food, or in other ways unsuitable to grace my pristine interior.

Sure, I know that after midnight, perfect passengers – sober, clean, charming, cashed-up – are thin on the ground, but still, I try to maintain some standards.

There was a young man working his way along the line. Not a good sign. He’d stick his head in a cab window, or open the door without sitting down, talk to the driver, and then move onto the next one.

By the time he got to me I was curious as to what his spiel might be. Maybe “Could you take me to Gordon [a half hour drive and a sixty dollar fare, this time of night] for ten dollars?” or “I’ve lost my wallet, but I can borrow the fare off my housemate.”

It usually involves a deal that’s long on distance and short of money.

I wound the window down for him. “Can you take us to McDonalds?” he slurred.

Bloody cheek. McDonalds in Civic is about two short blocks away. About three minutes saunter. Every cabbie must have told him that.

“Ah, that’s about seven dollars. It’s not far.”

He opened the door and sat down. Two young women got into the back seat.

He looked at me. “Can I wear your hat?”

“No!”

It’s a Breton sailors cap, and it covers my bald spot and I think it tops off my uniform nicely. Occasionally I’ll let a pretty girl wear it for a minute or two, but otherwise I hang onto it very carefully.

I hit the meter, for the $4.60 flagfall, and when I pulled up outside McDonalds, having scored a green light, it was $5.40.

“Just make it five bucks,” I told him.

He pulled out a card and paid from his savings account.

Yeah, I know it was a ridiculously short fare and all the other cabbies had turned him away because they were hoping for something better, but who was I to deny a gentleman taking two ladies out for dinner a ride in a chauffeured limousine?

A few nights earlier, I’d gotten a call from the Manuka rank to a nearby motel. She came out, directed me through the McDonalds drive through window for a Big Mac and two cheeseburgers, and return.

I get a lot of this. Late at night people get the munchies, and with a wad of Cabcharge cards it’s no skin off their nose or money out of their pocket to call a cab for a quick junkfood fix.

Or after midnight drunks going home will direct me via McDonalds. Sometimes I refuse, sometimes I pause the meter – “otherwise it will be the most expensive burger you ever had” – sometimes I leave it run. Depends on how I feel at the time.

Sometimes the passengers offer to buy me something. I always refuse.

But now and then, after my passengers wolf down a Big Mac and the hot fat smell of chips fills the car, I’ll go back once I’ve dropped them off and give way to my bodily cravings. There’s nothing quite like a fix of salt and fat and sugar, with a takeaway coffee to fuel me into the early morning.

They got in on the main city rank, now re-opened at a third the original size. “Can we stop at a bottle-o first?” one asked.

“Right-oh!” I replied. “But where are we going?”

“Formule 1″

“You beauty!” I thought to myself. The Formule 1 motel is one of those cheapo deals out on the highway. $59 a night for a basic room and the dining room is a vending machine.

But it’s a nice long fare.

We went through Braddon, stopping at the Bottle-O there. That’s the trade name, and it’s a good one. Well-stocked grog shop, free parking outside, off-licence to print money, it is.

One of the two young men went inside and I hit the “Pause” button on the meter. It was going to be a good fare and people who stay at cheap motels are reaching into their own pockets to count the pennies. I look after them.

The guy in the back seat, a fairly chunky sort of fella, caught sight of the “Route 66″ keyring I have bluetacked to the dashboard. It’s one I bought at the Route 66 museum in Chandler, OK last year, and I keep it there for daydreaming purposes. That half day spent exploring the old road between Tulsa and Oklahoma City was a very happy one!

“I’m going to ride Route 66 next year with my father,” he said. “We’ll pick up the Harleys in Detroit, ride them to LA, and ship them home.”

Wow! What a trip! This chap immediately had my attention.

His mate got back in, with a six pack of Jim Beams to help the night ahead go down, and we set off on Canberra’s own Mother Road. Northbourne Avenue.

We talked Route 66 and the USA all the way. The food, the cars, the motels, the people. I mentioned that I’m planning my own father-son trip along Route 66 next year. From the other side of the generation gap. Myself, my son and my daughter.

I had lusted after a rental Mustang, but looking at the reviews it sounds like it wouldn’t be as much fun for the third person, sitting in the cramped back seat, peering out through a couple of tiny side windows. I’d be doing a lot of the driving, but some of the time it would be me in the back seat, and I wanted to enjoy the experience.

So we’ll likely hire something with a bit of size and a bit of style. A Chrysler 300C would be ideal. Lots of room for people and baggage, space for extras, a bunch of buttons to press and an image that is unmistakably All-American.

Not as much fun as a Harley, to be sure, but I’m not a Harley kind of guy. I wished my passengers the best for the trip, put my foot down and whipped off in a cloud of dust for the airport, where I watched the planes climb into the night sky and sent my thoughts with them.

Earlier that day, a package from Amazon had arrived, containing a DVD: Route 66: Producer’s Picks.

Not a lot to do with Route 66 as such, but for the feeling of driving through Sixties America in a classy car, there’s nothing to beat it. The black and white scenes, the corny live-to-camera adverts, the unforgettable theme music, the guest appearances of later stars, the thought-provoking plots, and above all the lifestyle, it’s a pleasure to watch.

I’ve got a bunch of maps and guidebooks, any number of websites, and all my dreams to keep me going until next year.

I had one of those delightful taxi trips last night. After nine, so it was rate two, and I picked a gentleman up from a club, taking him home to a distant suburb.

It was open road all the way, just we two on an empty motorway speeding through the bushland of the Bush Capital, Miles Davis golden in our ears. Barely a word, just a shared joy in the experience.

I dropped him off, a smile on his face the only tip I needed, and headed back in. It was a quiet night and I was hoping for one or two from the bars in Kingston, before calling it a day ’round midnight.

While I was moving into a scoring position in Kingston the phone rang.

It was not my phone.

I pulled off the road and hunted it down. Not easily findable. Felt under the seat, in the back. Got out, opened the passenger door, looked under the floor mats. Finally found it in a crevice. A 32Gig iPhone down beside the passenger seat, under my computer which I stow there. Obviously been there for a while.

I rang back the “Missed Call” number and got an ecstatic young lady who had been worrying all day about her phone. I reassured her that it would be returned, and when I found she lived in Pialligo, not far from Canberra International Airport, I figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone.

She was glad to get it back, and though I didn’t ask for any tip or reward or even a reasonable fare to return the phone, that was good, as she didn’t offer any.

No worry. Making somebody happy is a rich reward in itself.

I looked in on the taxi rank. I could see that two planes had just landed, so I tailed onto the back, with about thirty cabs ahead. Unfortunately one of the planes was a Virgin flight, and the next to land (and last for the night) was another Virgin and as every cabbie knows, Virgin passengers generally ring up their rels to come collect them at the airport!

When the passengers had all walked out and left, I was the second cab on the rank, with no more planes due.

So I dipped out. Luck of the draw.

The thought crossed my mind that I was in a great position for the first flight of the next day, but doubtless my day driver would have words to say about that!

Last October we said goodbye to Betsy, our lovely silver Holden Statesman taxi. Almost new, she was loaded down with great features, and was a pleasure to drive.

But while I was off in America, the owner managed to write her off. One design flaw is that the A-pillars are very thick, hiding oncoming traffic at intersections. He didn’t mean to hit the other car, but he did, and hard enough to do some serious damage.

But he bought her back off the insurance company and over the past half year or so, while we’ve been driving loaner a Ford Fairlane, he’s gradually put her back together in the back of the workshop.

Yes, Charles the Fairlane that I crashed a week ago.

Friday it all came together and we swapped the patched-up Charles* for renewed Betsy. I got to drive her first shift as a reborn cab, just like I drove her first shift as a new cab last year.

What a pleasure! She’s got some wonderful functions, such as automatic windscreen wipers, front and rear parking sensors, MP3 disc player. The gas tank in the boot doesn’t rattle, so I don’t have to use the “ex-girlfriend” joke any more.

On the slight downside, there’s no seat memory – a boon for a car with three regular drivers – and the transmission makes a racket. Put your foot down, and the world can count the revs.

There’s also a new taximeter, so I’ll have to upgrade my muscle memory after three years of hitting the old set of buttons. At least this one comes with a user manual, which is a lot more than ever we got with the old one.

* Charles was repaired with bits from another Fairlane that just happened to be stuffed in the back of the workshop, and – trust me on this – there’s a fair bit of duct tape hiding some of the scars.