Taxi Ride

Within my group of friends, stories of strange taxi journeys are a never-ending source of conversation. Barely a night out goes by without someone sharing their most recent cab ride experience; some of the girls have been that impressed with the service they’ve invited the driver in for a ‘coffee’ (the 5 jagerbombs prior probably played a massive part in those decisions), others have been so convinced the erratic driving would result in their untimely demise that they’ve text their entire phone-book an “I love you, goodbye forever” message… even my mum has resorted to once throwing herself out of a car onto a dual carriageway via a dramatic Jackie Chan-esque roll, because she was convinced her driver was a rapist.

At a tiny 5ft 2”, my heel collection is a bit ‘stilts meets Lady Gaga’… so I generally avoid walking anywhere after more than 3 drinks, resulting in so many stories of strange taxi incidents that I could fill a book. The strangest, however, happened last summer on my way back to Disneyworld from International Drive…

As we left Sleuth’s Murder Mystery Dinner Show we asked for the number for a cab company, they did one better by ordering one for us…. Ten minutes later an unmarked 4×4 with blacked out windows showed up. Needless to say I was immediately convinced I was about to get murdered but, once again learning nothing from the Fun Spot incident that happened only two days before, we climbed in. Inside we came face to face with our taxi driver, who can only be described as a full on meathead with a spider tattooed onto his head, at which point I began to draft the goodbye text.

I have to stress that the following is no word of a lie or even slightly exaggerated, and was one of the strangest experiences of my life so far.

For 5 minutes we sat in complete silence, in which time I’d identified every potential escape root and had a whole James Bond-worthy exit from the sun roof planned out. Clearly sensing the tension, the driver put on some music – but not the hardcore rap, minimal house music or even just R&B that I would have expected.

Instead a choir of children singing “Them Bones, them bones them… dry bones” blasted from the speakers. No joke.

It was like something from children of the corn, only well more messed up. Jon and I glanced at each other, not knowing whether to be terrified or burst out laughing. That 15 minute drive felt like a lifetime as two more (just as ridiculous) songs followed that we, to this day, were too shell-shocked to remember.

Once again, I was genuinely surprised to arrive back at the hotel with all my belongings, unharmed and alive.

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