‘Isn’t resisting the lie what being a Quaker is about?’
‘Where to guvnor?’ said the taxi driver, leaning out of his cab.
‘Camden Town, please.’
There is something comforting about a London taxi cab, I thought, as I climbed into the back. They arrive out of nowhere in the teeming city and rescue you like a St Bernard dog might rescue a stranded hiker in the alps. There is a feeling of continuity and safety about getting into a black cab.
‘I had one of ’them Quakers in the back of my cab once,’ said the driver, pointing to Friends House, near where he picked me up. ‘They’re pacifists you know,’ he said. He amassed so much disgust in the word ‘pacifist’ that I thought he was going to spit, but was prevented from doing so because his window was closed.
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