I happened to be in M&S in the Trafford Centre last Friday and, as I was with someone much older, aceded to her wish to have a cuppa and a bite to eat in M&S. The queue looked daunting, but in fact a smiley queue manager ensured we were seated in just a few minutes. I set off to collect our food and drinks, and headed to a chill cabinet emblazoned with the words ‘Sandwiches, Salads and Sweet things’. Great - pick up the sandwich for the older lady, and an M&S salad for me - just like I usually do in Chiswick. Except - where are the salads? I looked and looked but no...

Well, it was me in the back of the black cab this morning and, oh dear, did I ever regret the travel mishaps on my way to a meeting that meant a cab was my only hope of arriving on schedule. To say the driver was loquacious would be a gross understatement. He was the archetypal cliche of a taxi driver. Opinionated, racist and unstoppable (except at every traffic light which miraculously turned red as he slowly approached it.) It’s been so long since I’ve been in a black cab that I forgot that, unlike the cheerful mini cab drivers I usually encounter, the drivers are a grumpy bunch...