Dangers of hitch-hiking in London (Rousse)

As soon as we settled into the back of the car, I realised our error. ‘I know this from a movie plot’, I thought. ‘The driver is monster. After giving us a lift to our named destination this evening, he will later attempt to kidnap us from our own homes’.

My fears were were confirmed when the driver leant over to the back seat and handed each of the three of us an envelope and biro. ‘Please write down your name and address, and I’ll send you a treat in the post’, he offered.

I scratched onto the paper ‘Mandy Rigg, 7 Larch Avenue, Islington’ in full view of my two companions. ‘Come on you two’, I ordered, ‘Pop your Islington addresses on your envelopes too’. At first TPR looked quizzical – who on earth was Mandy Rigg? –  but he soon understood my message, as did our companion. We handed back the envelopes and we were soon on our way.

‘Oh look, there’s a tube station!’ I shouted ‘Please drop us off here’.

‘Certainly’, said the driver.

Safely on the pavement, I expressed to TPR and our companion my relief at our lucky escape – only to find that the taller of the two people now standing next to me, grinning manically from ear to ear, was the driver. TPR was nowhere to be seen.

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