Taxi drivers are bastards. For those of you who regularly call a taxi from Broadstairs back to the campus, you’ll know the old industry term, ‘Ajay’s’ I should imagine. I had rather taken to flounderingly describing where I wished to be taken, so the poor woman at the other end was barraged with a wealth of information, all of which had very little to do with the taxi driving business (“that place where… it’s like Christ Church… but not in Canter… yeah… yeah… yeah that’s the one”). It got to the point where she advised me, with that dream-broken drawl that all female call collectors seem to adopt after their fifth year, to merely use the key word ‘Ajay’s’.

Now Ajay’s, if you don’t know, is a shop dealing in car parts that is situated directly opposite the Broadstairs Campus halls. Which at first made me a bit nervous about using the term, seeing as I was not technically going to Ajay’s. It was practically lying to the poor girl. For a few weeks afterwards, I sheepishly whittled my request down a few paragraphs, and forwent the introductory toast. However, one night, feeling brave and windswept, I powerfully demanded the lady (who by now not only knew my name, but could remember it without me telling her) to be taken to AJAY’S. I had never felt better. The seeds of change had been sown.

Outside The Wrotham Arms I waited, a heroic half-grin upon my face, for my ride back. When the driver pulled up, I clambered in Indiana-Jonesishly and gave a manly nod in his direction. “Holden”.
“You goin’ to Ajay’s then?’ The unexpectedly surly driver asked.
“Yup”.
It was at this point that I knew I had made the wrong decision. He gave a few smug looks in my direction. I started to sweat. Shifting in my seat uncomfortably, he looked straight at me, and said:
“*snort* …you’re not actually going to Ajay’s though, are you’.

Meekly, I shook my head and looked at the ground. For the whole ride back I nursed my broken spirit, with lament at the code-word I could not pull off.

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