McCloud was a small man in a white shirt and a burst of colourful tie come to meet me at the airport, holding my name up on a sheet of paper. Nothing to do with my superstardom, of course—more like thanks to cold hard cash handed over and an Internet prebooking with the car company, whatever would we do without the Internet.

McCloud was all Jamaican accent, which made me think of Lars, because Lars, red-headed Lars, Irish-Swedish Lars, New York–born Lars, Lars wears a Jamaican accent like no other New York–born Irish-Swedish redhead I know. This is Lars who, if you ask him a question that may be answered in the positive, will say, in lieu of “Yes”: “Does a bear shit in the woods?” Oh, Lars.

So, but.

If you are Tom or Maud or Hector, you know that cab drivers like me. They really, really like me. McCloud is a cab driver. Hence the chit-chat was nonstop all the way from Heathrow to Central London. It started easily enough, I guess. He wanted to know what I’m doing here, blah blah blah.

“I thought it was time for something new,” I said, “but I don’t have a job yet, so I’ll be eating beans for the next six months.”

“Nuttin wrong wit baked beans,” he said.

“It’s true,” I said, “and it’s a good thing I like baked beans.”

“’Cept they make you fart.”

“Um?”

“You sit there all fartin and nobody want to come around.”

People, let me tell you. When a man engages you in a conversation about farting within the first ten minutes of your acquaintance, you are in for some kind of ride. Some kind of insania Jamaican airport car ride.

He asked if I was married, so I asked if he was married. “I was,” he said, “but my condition has become subject to change.”

“What I want a woman for?” he said. “I got a woman, we don’t have sex anymore, but she cook for me, so what I want a woman for? All I need a woman for is the sex thing ya know.”

But he was joshing, McCloud was, because really, at fifty-three, he is tenderly looking for a nice, respectable woman to be quiet with. But she’s got to have a British passport so they can go to Key West in a heartbeat.

“You’ve got a pretty specific list of requirements,” I said.

“You gotta have a list,” he said. “What you lookin for in a man, madam. You gotta have a list. Otherwise they all come along takin the bloody biscuit outta you.”

“The bloody biscuit?” I said. “The wha-wha?”

“Takin the bloody biscuit,” he said. “That’s ‘takin the piss’. It’s a little rude ya know. I don’ wanna come out and say it cause it rude and you might be a lady.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I MIGHT be a lady.”

Soon he was calling me “babes” and giving me dating advice. “You gotta just go up to a fella. Say you like him. I’m not sayin ya fancy him ya know. But cha know ya like him, independent. And you say, ‘You seein anyone?’ And if he say no, you say, ‘Then how about we go out sometime.’ And he got to treat you wit respect, madam. You gotta let him know, ‘I’m gonna pour my sweetness over you—I’m not gonna do it tonight, but eventually I’m gonna pour my sweetness over you—but ya gotta be worth it.’”

So this is London. Watch out, boys.