While I am a great one for karma biting others in the arse, not so much me.
Tonight after dinner, The Artist suggested we walk home from Port Denauru to our hotel. In princess mode and slightly cranky I huffed my way to the taxi rank, refusing to walk a metre.
We were directed to the glitziest disco taxi in Fiji. I was thinking yeah yeah, rocking Fiji baby in my Studio 54 cab.We bounded in, the driver took off, switched on the interior light – I was expecting flashing lights. Not to be. Instead, a bit of National Geographic. A bat hanging on the rearview mirror. I shit you not.
Mass hysteria. I nearly vomited my dinner.
I assumed “the put your head between your legs and kiss your arse goodbye” position because a heart attack was imminent.
The driver, misunderstanding my screeching for delight started nudging the animal which then proceeded to start squeaking and squealing (as they do). Miss10 and Miss13 joined in in unison whilst also assuming the curled up position.
The bat then decided enough was enough and dropped to the floor – where we were unsure of its exact location.
I fucking died at this point expecting it to arrive on my foot.
Losing all dignity I think the driver got the drift of my displeasure and trauma.
Hit the ground running when the bastard opened the door – yup – it was one of those minibus types that opens from the outside so we had a few extra seconds with the bat to cement an experience that will no doubt scar me for life. The Miss’s are going to need therapy.
The Artist is still laughing about the karma and the walking and the bat.
I’m failing, completely failing to find it even vaguely funny that I just lost five years of my life in a three minute taxi ride.
He didn’t get a tip. Fucking Psycho.