A Taxi in Belfast

My best friends know I am no shutterbug. It is but rarely that I take the camera out to take photos of anything that does not bear a striking resemblance to myself. Most of my photos thus end up looking something like this:

Or the photos have to be just plain ridiculous; something like this:

But the other day, when I was walking down Belfast, I saw this taxicab. As most people who live in the UK know, most (actually, if I'm not mistaken, all) cabs in the UK are the same kind – called black cabs. While they're very comfortable and all that, they're not designed to get you to drool. In fact, they look only slightly better than the 'trusty' old Ambassador.

This taxi, however, was not one of those. Though built by the same company, it was an older model – a model that harked back to an earlier era where young men wore spats, debutantes presented themselves to the queen, Gandhi still wore clothes, and Nehru still had hair. Though I'm not sure if Nehru wasn't born bald.

I asked the taxi driver if I may snap a photo of his vehicle. This being Ireland, a simple yes wouldn't suffice, of course. The taxi driver looked up, smiled and said, 'Sure, but it would be even better to take a few pictures of the interior while you're taking a paid ride.'

'Er... I'm broke.'

'Oh, no worries then.'

He then went on to tell me how this model was more reliable than the 'new fangled contraptions' they've got down in Edinburgh or London, as it had been tested. He also told me, rather wistfully, that his chrome bumpers were missing. Then, he gave me yet another reminder of why I love Ireland and the Irish so much – he opened the door, and allowed me to sit in the driver's seat and take a gander at the wooden instrument panel.

One of those things that can happen only in the emerald isle, innit!