No nice men are good at getting taxis.
When I was 15 my parents left town for a month. They hid the keys to the car but I found them. That month I drove my stepdad's Thunderbird Super Coupe into Manhattan every day and I would crank Cypress Hill as I flew around the city racing the taxis.
I've worked as a labourer driven taxis and school buses and been a car mechanic - whatever I could do just to get by. But it does mean that I know a little bit about a lot of things.
My mother listened to all the news from the camp during the strike. She said little especially when my father or the men who worked for him were about I remember her instinctive and unhesitating sympathy for the miners.