A man knocked on our front door today. It was a Churglar. A chugger who call at your home. I’m a reformed offender can you . . . No. Thanks.

When you want West Central Street you don’t wait until you get to Clerkenwell before telling the driver that you have mumbled “West” Central Street.

I don’t think a day has gone by since the Romans arrived that Bishopsgate has been free of roadworks.

Occasionally, just occasionally a rather strange series of events play out in a working day. My first job was to pick up actor Ralph Fiennes and take him to an editing suite in Soho. Within yards from dropping him off, I was hailed by a guy in a wheelchair. As I was lowering the ramp he told me, and you’ll just have to suspend disbelief here, he had just been asked by a beggar for £15. Whatever happened to “Got any spare change Gov’nr?” Half an hour later, in the back of the cab, I found a camera case with a digital camera memory card within, but no camera. I inserted the card into my own camera that I always carry for the blog. Returning to the rather swish restaurant where my fare was dining I proffered my phone showing the punters image to the Maître’d and got him to scour the darkened restaurant. Errant punter found I returned to my cab with a self-satisfied smug look and little else.