Greggs…in a Taxi

Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.

It’s Monday. Not most people’s favourite day of the week. To me, Monday is a travel-to-work kind of day. That being by bus, then train and sometimes a taxi (if my boss doesn’t collect and deliver me) to get to my final destination of work. To sew. And so…

As I make my way there, I remind myself that it’s not just work, it’s a means to an end, and it’s my chance to interact with the world. To listen and observe. This is my universe.

The most pleasant part of my workday is the journey. Each day offers me something new and interesting if I look for it. Through the same dirty bus and train windows, I look out and around. I notice new things every day. My interactions with willing and sometimes unwilling travel companions gift me with thoughts, insights, viewpoints, inspiration and stories. I am a happy traveller. I smile often and strike up conversations with strangers.

“Sorry, I went out last night. Can you get a taxi from the train station (again), and I will be there later?” That was my boss.

“Hello, Heidi.” That was Greg. I am at Greggs. Well, in Greg’s taxi.

We both smile as we do whenever he collects me from the train station. Today is Monday, and I count down in my head that I have only four more days to sew. Like the take-off of a rocket ship count down: five, four, three, two… (note to self: Get a new job!)

Greg knows my destination almost better than me. Internally, I want to say No! Don’t take me there, but I know I must fulfil my daily quota of sewing. So, Greg and I begin to banter, as we do.

“Well, it’s obvious that neither of us won the Lottery last Saturday.”

We begin our usual lively out-of-the-box conversation. That life is good, but it could be better. Sarcasm and inside jokes reign supreme. I once shared with him that I wished I were young enough to reinvent myself as a well-paid female escort, and I educated Greg that, yes, there is such a thing as a male escort. To which he responded, jokingly, that he would have to pay his clients. I tell him that all I could offer him would be a cup of tea. We both laugh internally to keep the banter going, appreciating the ease and quickness of our humour. We both decided that, in our youthful mid-years, we both missed our chance for career changes.

But there is always the lottery. I share that I have two free tickets for Wednesday, and he tells me he doesn’t know if he won last Saturday because he hadn’t checked his numbers. I tell him he should, but he seems in no hurry. I smile internally. We should all check our numbers every day.

l hope that one day Greg wins the lottery. (I hope that one day I win the lottery). But then again, if he won, I probably would never get to have another morning at ‘Greggs’ taxi and enjoy our out-of-the-box banter, with a thank you and a smile for a £3.90 taxi ride.

I think, in a lot of ways, we both already won the lottery. I think if I asked him, he would agree. The lottery of life, that is. To have a positive outlook and engage with life and one another as we are all fellow travellers on this planet we still call Earth. If you embrace every moment for what it is and can be, even on a Monday, the lottery of life is priceless.

Speaking of Greggs, after arriving home from my Monday travel, I am hungry, with only one hour before I retire and try my hand at Tuesday’s lottery of life.

I will win that too. I already won Monday’s.

Life is a lottery. Play it to win it every day. With a smile.

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