I flagged him down on Suffolk Street. "Take me home," I said. "To Cabra."
I got an unfair whack of booze as soon as I sat in. He barely spoke but anything he said came with a slur. No identification on the dashboard, a drunken chancer.
I'd been here before, only weeks earlier when I accused another of driving while drunk. Ugly scenes, he said he'd call the guards and perform a breathalyser, so this time around I figured I'd keep my counsel.
He veered awkwardly towards Blessington Street, the Mater, up the North Circular and on to my road.
I paid him a tenner and got out of the car. He was belching and glassy.
I took note of his licence number.
When I got inside I looked up the number of the taxi regulator.
"If you want to make an official complaint, print out the form from the website and we'll look into it upon receipt of..."
"But that'll take days. He's clearly been drinking. He's out there now."
Their hands were tied.
So I rang the guards.
"What is your complaint?" he asked in his finest Templemore.
"Well, I've just been dropped off by a taxi driver who's clearly drunk. I'm worried that he'll crash and kill himself, or others, or himself and others."
"Have you had a few yourself?"
"Have you been drinking yourself?"
"Well, I don't see how that's relevant but no. I haven't. I've just come from work. I have his plate number. Do you have a pen to hand."
"Would you like me to hold while you get one?"
"I suppose so, for all the good it'll do."
I quoted the number to him and waited for him to tell me he'd alert, well, whoever he might alert in this case. Instead...
"And where was he going once he dropped you off?"
I put down the phone and poured myself a whiskey.