The Taxi Man


Monday morning comes round far too quickly, especially after an alcohol fuelled weekend.

Friday afternoon I was at the hospital, where I was poked and prodded with needles, forced to pee in a cup and taught how to inject myself with the new medicine, so by the time I got home I was well and truly gasping for a drink.

True to form, I poured myself a large glass of wine with dinner, and proceeded to finish the bottle, and then started on the Prosecco. I finished the evening watching Pan’s Labyrinth munching on dry cereal. I really know how to live.

Saturday was slightly more eventful, my sister and I decided to go on an impromptu night out in Southend. We settled on Dick De Vignes, as it wouldn’t matter what we looked like, there would always be someone looking more of a state than us.

We danced, we drank, oh boy did we drink, but ultimately ‘Poptastic’ got the better of us, and we decided to call it a night. We staggered up the high street to the taxi rank and waited our turn. As with most drunken nights out, we ended up chatting to a lad who was also waiting for a taxi. He asked if he could jump in ours with us. My sister did the responsible thing and asked him if he was a predator or a rapist. Of course he replied no, and I piped up with, well it wouldn’t matter anyway, we’re not exactly targets are we. I meant that we were 2 girls together, so were less of a target. His response killed me, he turned to us, two girls he had never met before, and in the most gentle and soothing voice, as if he were about to deliver a beautiful compliment, he said, “Don’t put yourself down, you’re rape-able.’

I lost it, I was cracking up at great volume at the taxi rank, we’re talking cackling and wheezing.

The worst part is, that was the best compliment I received that night.


Single in South Essex



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