The Uber in which Hyman Z Kaplan, Sadie Moskowitz and Rose Mitnick rode to the airport this afternoon was, as usual in Washington, clean, fresh, comfortable, air-conditioned and driverless, the light outside was niveous and the three friends relaxed during the ride, but Hyman still missed the taxi-drivers of New York – the only city of any size in the Americas (as the former United States is referred now – I am explaining this for my British readers in the past, where this sentence will be posted thanks to the benefits of Worm-Holes, who haven't yet reached the '30s and for whom the Eastern seaboard is simply five hours behind Western Europe – oh, they don't know what the future holds for them and I don't have the time or space to tell them everything) which still has all it's taxis driven by drivers - with their constant conversation, insults, bons mots, polemics and interjections into their passengers' conversations, always ready to advise and counsel, to warn and caution, to praise and wind up, like corner-men in a boxing ring; so many of his social and political stories had been born during a taxi-ride, and you might remember the sorry plight of Sylvester J McCann or the giddying rise and fall of Maxwelton Braes, of the brutal reign of Dwight D Doubleday when Head of the World Bank, or President Idi Brahmin and his outrageous wife Zsa-Zsa with her 12,000 pairs of white kid gloves, and her 3,000 black leather bustiers, or even the Abominable Albert Snowman and his abuse of . . . . . but for the nonce, here and now, Hyman and his colleagues laid the plans for their return visit to their Hometown: New York, New York!