Confessions, No Surcharge

Sir, I've been driving in circles around this roundabout for eleven minutes. At some point you have to admit you're not "basically there."

Not truthful. There's a phrase that pays extra. Go on then — where are we actually going, and is it the kind of place I should've asked for cash up front?

Your second marriage. Right. So we're not going to a place, we're going to a person. That's worse — people don't have addresses that stay put, and my meter definitely doesn't refund for closure.

Fear of being yelled at. Sir, I have been doing this job for six years — I have never once seen indecision solve a roundabout. My father used to say the man who won't pick an exit ends up in Wales, and he would know, he married three of them. Pick a lane. Metaphorically. Also literally, I'm running out of lane.

Pick a lane is right, and I'll say this — you're the most honest fare I've had since the bloke who told me he was running from his own engagement party. You people always find me. It's like I've got a sign that says "confessions, no surcharge." So which exit is your ex-wife's driveway, or are we doing a third lap for old times' sake?

Third lap sounds fun — that's the meter talking now, not me. I'm just the messenger between you and eleven pounds forty. Alright, since you're clearly a man who thrives under pressure, I'm putting us on exit three in four seconds whether you've decided or not. Four. Three. Two.