In a taxi it’s good to talk – and on holiday it’s good to write

Not that divine intervention played any part in the routine procedure I underwent last week to release a locking (or, to use the medical term, ‘trigger’) finger. Yet at some point in the past this operation, as with so many others, would have been regarded as ground-breaking.

Admitted to the day surgery unit at 12.30 pm, I spent a most welcome couple of hours relaxing, indulging a favourite pastime of reading newspapers, as my fellow patients watched the proceedings at Wimbledon.

Come late afternoon there was a short walk to the operating theatre, while exchanging pleasantries with a nurse, to be gently knocked out with a general anaesthetic. Once the surgeon had performed the deed, I was brought back to the land of the living and returned to the ward.

The revival process was greatly assisted by a plate of tasty sandwiches and a pot of tea.

Shortly after 6 pm yours truly, left hand swaddled in a very impressive, sympathy-inducing bandage, was heading home to Grouville to further recuperate with a glass of chilled elderflower cordial in a sun-drenched garden.

And there I remain, marooned on the Boulivot Heights, unable to drive until the stitches come out and relying on friends to drop in to restock the fridge and break the monotony.

Say what you like about our health service – and it is far from perfect – but when they get it right they do so admirably.

If only the appointment I have been waiting for since February at the eye clinic could be processed a tad faster, then I would be a happy bunny.

But then, as the old family doctor used to say, don’t worry about waiting for a hospital appointment, it’s time to fret when they want to rush you in the next day!

The taxi ride to the General also gave me food for thought. Taxi drivers are an eclectic bunch. There are those who either have tales to tell, gossip to share, life stories to impart or moans to make. On rare occasions, you come across one who, apart from a cursory greeting and informing of the fare, sits face-forward in stony silence for the entire journey.

In such instances, I pass the time pondering on why such anti-social souls ever took up a career that requires sharing a confined space with people.

The driver on last week’s hospital run was the sociable type and one of a diminishing breed: a true Jerseyman.

Passionate about the beauty of the Island, yet not entirely uncritical of the States, he was perfectly happy to have been living in the same house for 40 years.

As I hopped out of his cab, his cheery parting words were ‘à bientot’ and ‘à la prochaine’.

You don’t hear those words very often in a licensed cab these days – or in most places, come to that. Yet not that long ago those simple farewells were in everyday usage throughout the vingtaines and St Ouen’s cueilettes.

This very Jersey of taxi drivers reminded me of another of his profession, but as far away from the Island as you can just about get.

Being driven to Hobart airport on the delightful Australian state of Tasmania ten years or so ago, I engaged in conversation with the driver. He had no idea where Jersey was and was honest to admit that he didn’t really care. Tasmanian-born and bred, he was so content with life that he had no inclination whatsoever to travel anywhere – not even the mainland, as the locals call Australia.

The taxi driver who made me chuckle the most was a conspiracy theorist who was convinced that a then States Member had done a deal when the huge granite capping stones had to be replaced on the sea wall at West Park. As the replacements were smaller, he was convinced they were cheaper and, therefore, inferior. His theory didn’t end there, because he went on at great length, having been told on good authority that the stones came from a French quarry in which the Senator had shares, so someone, somewhere in some underhand way, had taken a backhander.

At times such as these, it is strange how long the journey from the Airport to Grouville can be. And where the hell is an anaesthetist when you really need one?

As I flicked through the newspapers in the day surgery, one story caught my eye and made me sad. It told the story of the demise of the postcard.

Of 2,000 Brits surveyed recently, four out of ten no longer sent postcards when on holiday. Instead, even the ‘silver surfing’ generation of the over-55s admitted to sending emails or imparting their holiday news on Facebook and Twitter.

What a sorry state of affairs it is that we have no time to break everyday habits while on holiday.

What greater pleasure than making the time to not only write postcards, but to go from shop to shop to find those that best sum up holiday experiences or the destination.

How sad that such a great British tradition and nice little earner for holiday resorts (not to mention the postal services worldwide) is destined to become another casualty of e-communications.

Ask any taxi driver worth their salt and they would agree it is good to talk, but it is also good to write.

A la prochaine!