Talker

The wheels hit the Gatwick tarmac and skid in the drizzle. North Terminal. Soused. Forsaken. Walk for 10 miles to baggage reclaim, stinking of Easyjet, dehydrated by lager and snack packs. Take the lift up to the Monorail and transfer to the South Terminal; fall asleep on the Gatwick Express to Victoria station; find the cab rank and get in a black bus. The driver clocks the luggage.

"So, been on your holidays?"

Please God no. Not a talker. Anything but a talker. Don't answer. Pretend to read crackers for a bit.

"Me and the missus are going on holiday next week with the kids. To Sharm in Egypt, just by the Red Sea. It's just easy isn't it. All in. Everything. Four a la carte restaurants. As much as you can eat and drink. Name brands too. Been for the last three years. We used to go to Turkey, but I got fucked off with the night flights. Mind you, to be honest, it still cost me five and half grand. But that is for two weeks. And the kids love it. They just fuck off and do their own thing and leave me alone.

It's lovely and hot there. Boiling mate. 45 degrees. Melting. You've never felt anything like it. Last year they started doing some green, environment bollocks. You know, so you have to take your key out of the slot when you leave the room and that turns off the air con during the day. 'Be green' or something. Tight cunts more like. They're snide the Egyptians. So I just stick my Matalan card in the slot when I go out. Environment. Bollocks. For five and half grand I want a cold room when I get indoors."

Sir, would it be OK if I paid you to stop talking? Or alternatively I could kill you?