Our cabs

I saw something really cute on the way to work the other day. Down a quiet street in Southwark, there is a place where broken taxis go to be healed. There were loads of them; some parked on the street, patiently waiting for their turn; others in the midst of serious surgery, lined up with their mouths opened wide.

I do love London's cabs. Their snub noses, and rounded shape. They are said to be specially designed to be able to turn on a six-pence; and the passenger compartment has extra head room, originally for top hats. Although the flip down, backwards facing seats mean that with strong brakes applied, you could well end up in the lap of the person opposite you.

Last week a colleague and I were in Birmingham, and had a quite different taxi experience. We were collected by some Ford sedan, with a magnetic taxi company logo on the side. Aside from the logo, we could have just jumped in someone's family car. We slid across the backseat, feeling rather intimate with the driver, and a little like we might be kidnapped. When we got to the station he turned around and said "how much do you pay?" We looked at one another, completely bemused. We certainly weren't in London anymore. Eventually negotiating a fair price for both parties (£7) we slid out again, and onto the train.

It's easy to forget the wonder of London's 21,000 black cabs. Yes, they clog up the streets, and yes, they pollute the city. But I can't help think they are really quite cute.