It’s Saturday night, Miss R and I have been having a civilised and wild night out in Manchester to celebrate our first-year anniversary.
By now, we’ve dined, wined, cocktailed and danced the night away (in the process making me feel very old indeed). It’s 12.30am when I gratefully clamber into a taxi, and start to slowly realise just how mischievous Miss R can be.
During the taxi ride home, Miss R tells the taxi driver about my blog, and in particular my wonderment as to why we tip taxi drivers.
I briefly panic, having drunken visions of us being turfed out of a taxi and left to the whims of Manchester – fortunately, the taxi driver is made of sterner stuff, and turns out to be a genial kind of chap. Which you’d have to be, if you’re picking up drunk/merry people in Manchester at 12.30am. And he talks about how he never expects a tip, but he’s grateful for getting one.
Which of course means that when we do leave the taxi, I have to leave a tip. Natch.