Bruce Almighty!

Me and the missus had our weekly outing to do the big shop at Sainsbury’s on Sunday morning. Our usual routine is to shop, pay then get a cab home from the little kiosk in the store.

Booking the cab ride, however, has become a battle of wills because the conversation between me and the cab kiosk controller always goes something like this:

‘Where are you going to?’
‘Kensal Green.’
‘Your name?’
‘Brooks…’
‘Bruce?’
‘No Brooks.’
‘OK Bruce. Green car out the door on the right.’
‘Thanks.’

This has been going on for six year until we finally had the following conversation on Sunday.

‘Where are you going to?’
‘Kensal Green.’
‘Your name?’
‘Broo… Actually my name is Bruce.’
‘Bruce?
‘Yes. Bruce…’
‘OK Bruce. Green car out the door on the right.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problems Bruce.’

The missus was waiting with the trolley and looked puzzled.

‘Why did he call you Bruce?’
‘Because I told him it’s my name…’
‘Why?’
‘Because it just is…’

Pause. I get the look. This is part-confusion, part-pity and part-I-can’t-believe-I-married-you. We are driven home.