Mocca And The Taxi Driver

Changing into my gym gear, I stole a glance at the only other person in the men's changing room. He was quite a big guy, resembling the bodybuilder in the I-selling-my-house-at-Mocca.com advertisement, except that he allowed his thinning hair to dangle sparsely above his shoulders.

Another one entered. Mocca's face lit up with recognition, smiled and nodded a greeting. The other nodded in return.

"How's the taxi?" Mocca asked.

"Fed up!" fumed the taxi driver.

"How come?" enquired Mocca.

"I was waiting for a passenger near an office building. My passenger was late but the appointed pick-up point was at the side of the building. No parking was allowed there but I decided to wait for a while as an ang-moh had his BMW parked in front of me, apparently also waiting for someone.

Soon the building's security guard approached. He ignored the ang-moh but motioned for me to move my vehicle. I pointed at the ang-moh's BMW indignantly but it was in vain; the security guard persisted in waving me away. Luckily, my passenger appeared just in time and a conflict was avoided."

"People just don't respect taxi drivers," sighed the taxi driver.

I caught sight of Mocca shaking his head sympathetically as I left the changing room.