Читать книгу Grumpy Old Men: New Year, Same Old Crap - David Quantick - Страница 27

The very name ‘rickshaw’ is something of a misnomer, as it used to conjure images of determined Eastern pedalcab drivers, ringing their bells to scatter traffic as they conveyed their human cargo either to Raffles Hotel for a chota peg, or to the ancient temple to warn Sing Lu Sen of an attempt on her life.

The British rickshaw driver is not like that. He is usually a visitor to these shores too feckless to get bar work, who spends his days cycling about tinkling his bell at any woman he sees and then, when you have given in and agreed to go for a ride in his far-from-silver machine, reveals two things. One: he has never heard of where you want to go. And two: he will charge you twenty quid for the privilege of not getting there.