With a trousers against leather squelch and a ker-dang of strained springs, the professor shifted his bulk and squirmed forward in his seat. He sniffed the air a little distractedly – ‘lettuce,’ he thought and edged closer to the glass partition separating him from the driver. The cab lurched forward so his broad features became momentarily squashed and splayed broader across the pane.

‘Blet us splay a blat…’ began O’Singh.

‘Take yer lips off the partition,’ urged the cabbie.