Chronic

I picked up four students, three girls and a boy, at the end of their alcohol-fuelled night out. Their accents reeked of childhood gymkhanas and croquet lawns.

They were debating their imminent sleeping arrangements at the ear-splitting volume of people who haven’t yet adjusted their voices to the fact that they are no longer in a club. Such voices have an exceedingly short life-span in my cab

One girl, sitting behind me, was delighted to discover that I was a female taxi driver. Apparently, I had made her night.

“You’ve had a pretty crap night, then,” I remarked, smiling.

We broke into conversational groups. I chatted with the lovely girl next to me, whom I recognised from a previous journey. The girl behind me was determined to try to dominate the conversation. Suddenly she shrieked, “ANAL SEX?!!! That’s DISGUSTING!”

The girl next to me froze in her seat, as horrified as her friend, but for entirely different reasons.

“I think that’s a conversation that we should continue at home,” she said hastily, staring fixedly ahead.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” I offered. “I’ve heard worse.”

(In actual fact, earlier in the evening, I had a frank discussion about a variety of types of adult work with a lap-dancer, whom I was taking to her workplace. As she got out of my cab, she remarked,

“That was a lovely journey. I wish more people were as open-minded as you!”)

Back to the students. While the other two girls cringed in their seats, and the lad regretted starting the conversation in my presence, the loud girl continued with a succinct explanation of exactly why she thought anal sex was disgusting.

It transpired that her primary concerns revolved around both the logistics and the hygienic feasibility. Her upbringing might have been refined, but her choice of vocabulary was not.

The boy was insistent that these potential hazards could be overcome.

“It’s like, if the girl had a poo, like six hours before, it would probably be ok,” he insisted. “Or, she could have a chronic irrigation.”

As I fought to maintain my composure, my hand flew to my mouth, in an effort to stifle my mirth. They mistook this for revulsion, and apologised profusely and sincerely as they left.

Ah, students. The gift that just keeps on giving.

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