Tipping dilemma
Petronella Wyatt
Why do we tip taxi-drivers? I mean why do we really? We don't tip traindrivers, or bus-drivers, or minicab-drivers or airline pilots. So why do we always fumble in our bags, as the fat man in the front seat looks threatening, to give him some whopping tip?
Tipping, surely, is for performing some act beyond that of merely doing one's job. But what do taxi-drivers do these days beyond grumbling about the congestion charge, taking one on the longest route and then merely sitting there as one struggles to open the door handle. I have noticed that these door handles have become much harder to open recently. suspect that this is because the longer one struggles the more the meter ticks.
Anyhow. Do they help you out of the taxi? No. Do they see you to your front door? No. If you have any bags, do they carry them? Certainly not. If one ventures to ask, the usual reply is, 'You're a young woman. I'm an old man with a bad back.' Oh, really. If they are all so infirm, why do they do so much moonlighting on the side?
Yet they still expect a tip. But do you tip the girl who hands you a doughnut over the counter, or the usher in a theatre, or the person who sells programmes? So why do we continue to do it? I suppose out of habit. But my older friends tell me that, in the distant, glorious past, taxi-drivers did do things for you. They did help you out of the cab, they did see you to your door and, if you had parcels, they actually carried them.
Nowadays, one struggles home from Waitrose with six bags of food and is simply hurled out on to the street. The undeservingness of these creatures was brought home to me — quite literally — the other day. My mother was returning to the house in a taxi. It was about a quarter to 11 at night. Katalin, the Hungarian housekeeper, heard her arrive. The front gate was open and Katalin was standing at the front door.
My mother, after tipping the taxi-driver, struggled to get out of the cab. Suddenly, a man came out of the darkness, dressed in a black cap and a hooded grey sweatshirt. He hit my mother on the head. While she reeled, he stole her handbag and began to make his escape. My mother went after him. Katalin went after him. But what did the cabbie do having just seen a youth mug an elderly woman two feet away from him? Nothing. He turned his cab around and drove off in the other direction.
One might have thought he was in league with the mugger. But I doubt it. He was simply too lazy, too careless or too scared. When the police arrived, they were astonished that anyone would dare mug a woman in front of a taxi-driver. Ha ha. Criminals probably got the measure of these creatures long before I did. The mugger doubtless knew perfectly well that taxidrivers do nothing in such situations. Yet what would happen to a pilot who, if a hijacker struck, tried to escape from the aircraft and leave his passengers to their fate?
From now on, I have resolved never to tip again. Yesterday I took a taxi as an experiment. The journey was short. The man looked at me expectantly as I handed over the amount on the meter. I smiled at him politely, said thank-you, and removed myself from his vehicle. I believe I heard him mutter 'bitch'. Did he expect a tip for that?
Whenever I can, moreover, I shall take minicabs. The drivers don't bombard you with complaints about immigrants because most of them are immigrants. Indeed, they don't talk to you at all because they don't speak English. But they are generally courteous and willing to give you as much assistance as you ask for. Nor do they hold out their hands in a threatening manner for a tip. Now that deserves a big tip, don't you think?
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