A bleak, wet kerb trawl – and no fairy-tale end to New Year

THERE is nothing lonelier than a kerb for one. No, I am not looking for sex. It's worse. I am looking for a taxi. It is New Year's Eve. Or rather, New Year's morning. 3am. Rush hour for cabs.

Taxis are either full or vrooming past empty without their For Hire light on. The heated debate over the Pogues' lyrics in Fairy Tale of New York is nothing. This is the Fairy Tale of New Year and I am shouting far worse than "you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot" at every taxi driver that goes by without stopping.

I hate one thing about New Year. Partying is marred by the impossibility of an exit that works. How many hours of how many New Year nights have you spent staring at a metropolitan horizon, trying to be first to shout taxi ahoy? Wondering if a telescope might help, and berating yourself for having forgotten both that and an umbrella. For there is a by-law somewhere that says it must rain at New Year; clouds wait till the first firework zooms aloft and then start retaliating.

Pre-ordering a taxi never works. They always stand you up. I got fed up arranging a rendezvous at a particular corner, where I would stand hopelessly believing my knight in a black charger would come. He never did.

And until Goretex does a glamour collection, no-one dressed up is ever clad or shod right. In the 1990s, I remember being kitten-heel-deep in puddles, cursing my sequined bodice for its failure to insulate against the chill, and bemoaning the fact only my pants were hot. Change the season, update the clothes, keep the complaints.

Ten years ago, I decided staying in was the new going out and every Hogmanay since I have been at home, smugly comfy, always within range of my slippers. But New Year is like childbirth. You eventually forget how awful it was. The result of such Hogmanay amnesia: here I am again on a kerb.

Is there somewhere more promising where I might boost the chances of getting a taxi? I decide to ask passers-by. It's what they're there for – passing-by carries social responsibility. They are service providers as soon as they walk past their front door. But waiting for that dream – for which read sober – passer-by isn't working. There are fewer of those than cabs. I keep walking. And walking.

Finally, I get a taxi less than a minute's hoof from my front door. On any other night I would call this a Mrs John Prescott distance: 200 yards and too embarrassingly short. Wasn't there some controversy at a Labour Party conference when she insisted on a Hackney to protect her hair for such a short ride?

The fare is £2.40. An awkward sum. I give the man £2.50 and suggest he keeps the change. "Don't bother," he says. "10p is an insult to a taxi driver". Does he expect three pounds to be handed over? In which case, he would receive 60p for his services? A 25 per cent tip for a minute's work?

"I hope life meets your expectations," I say. "And Happy New Year."

My resolution: petition the government to license a million new taxis by next Hogmanay.

Make a requirement of the licence that drivers attend a charm module. And stay at home anyway.

Flushing out truth about Mrs T's toilet trap

RARELY have the national archives been so diverting. The newly released files from 1977 disclose that Margaret Thatcher got trapped in the lavatory of an American hotel during an official visit (an "official visit" to the States, I presume, not the bathroom: one hopes she was allowed to pay that kind of visit on an informal basis).

It occurred in Texas when the then leader of the opposition was on a lecture tour. Both she and husband Denis had to be released from toiletry confinement because the door handle wouldn't work from the inside. Musings upon why they were in the loo together – was she sick with nerves and Denis holding back her hair lest the Elnett Supreme Hold fail, or trying to create clear blue water with an American Toilet Duck and seeking his opinion on the shade? – were brought short when it emerged they were freed on separate occasions.

I suspect the problem with the handle was political not mechanical. The maid was probably outside yelling, "Just turn it, Mrs T". She responded: "The lady's not for turning."

• JAMES Bond often finds himself in sticky situations. An A4 envelope will soon be one of them, when a set of stamps featuring images from Dr No and Casino Royale is issued. Bond, surely, would prefer his stamps stuck on, not licked. But should they require moistening, how about Martini-flavoured gum on the back? Referring to the adhesive, we can coo: "Mr Bond, you taste so good."

Cracking way to look your best

GOT an idea. Lady crackers. "Pull the other one," you'll be saying, demonstrating the comedic pedigree of the jokes contained within. We all moan about those. And the shoddy nature of the trinkets. Plus the fact that most crackers whimper rather than bang.

But what ought to be lamented are the paper hats that come with the cracker, and herein lies the unique selling point for lady crackers. Those hats ruin your Christmas hairdo. They either flatten it, or leave a line around your head.

Lady crackers won't contain paper millinery. Instead, they'll have paper scarves. Or paper gloves. These won't make your hair sit funny, ensuring you stay a wee cracker throughout dinner. Boom, boom. See, lady crackers even create a good noise when you pull them.