Marjory Frauts (marjory) wrote,
Marjory Frauts
marjory

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I Meet Mustelids

Last night we went out and came home in a taxi (not an ambulance). That's when I saw them, sat on the side of the road. At first I thought that they were 2 small cats, but then my brain started to click and whir as I thought, "Hmmm... Not quite cat-shaped. Cats don't come in russet with cream bibs. Cats don't move like that. They're..." "Martens," the cab-driver supplied. beech martens, to be precise. Oh! Never seen those before... Plenty of trees and undergrowth and mice and birds for them hereabouts, but this was hitherto unsuspected weaselage for me.

This is where we owe a previous taxi-driver a sort of apology. One night, a long while back, we came across Mr. Crazy Taxi-Driver. Now, the majority of taxi-drivers here come from the former USSR or Afghanistan or Iraq. Naff all appear to come from Germany. An awful lot of taxi-drivers tell us their life stories and about 90% have a degree in Electrical Engineering or somesuch but, due to being relatively new in Germany and needing to sort out their German and get practical placements, they drive cabs. Among the rare breed of German cabbie, notable specimens here in Gö are For-Crying-Out-Loud-Sit-Up-Straight-And-Remove-Your-i-Pod Boy and Mr. Everything-I-Wear-Is-Made-Of-Leather-Down-To-My-Jaunty-Cap (who is actually a good driver, but boy! does he look kinky!). Mr. Crazy is also German.

Mr Crazy hared through the streets of Göttingen at Autobahn speeds, cackling madly to himself. It was a tarmac-kissing experience. The exception to the all-new Hockenheim recreation was at the bottom of our hill, where he slammed on the brakes and swerved to one side. He turned to us and said, "It's the martens! They run all over the road and I don't want to squish them!". I weakly returned something to the effect that this was indeed a noble sentiment and nodded approvingly. Getting home, we both turned to one another and vowed never to get in a cab with Mr. Crazy ever again, so bad was his driving and so unnerving had his cackling been. "And," I said, "he might have been on drugs. He was hallucinating weasels running all over the road..."

To be fair to me, he did appear to be a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. Additionally, martens are practically unheard of in the UK, where I've never seen so much as a stoat, so I'd never considered that they are fairly widespread in Germany. So, Mr. Crazy, I'd like to apologise to you now for the inference which I made that you may be a druggie or prone to hallucinations, merely because I had never managed to spot any martens until now. I would, however, ask you to kill your speed a tad and STOP CACKLING or else drivers who don't love the martens so much will get all of your custom and their demise shall be on your conscience.
Tags: Göttingen, beech marten, taxis
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