The old men of Harwell

I had good cause to be in Didcot on Thursday - making a visit to a supplier in Harwell. After a disasterous, delayed train journey I stood in line at Didcot Parkway for a cab to take me to the science park.

It turns out Harwell taxi men are a breed apart. If you'd visited a World War II Veterans Luncheon and collected up the ten crustiest chaps and told them they could earn a bob or two driving patience-free London train passengers around sleepy villages, you wouldn't have come up with a better match for this bunch. Each in their own silver Mercedes - with, I noted, in-car navigation systems (the cars have obviously been updated more recently than the drivers) - the men are elderly, silver-haired, rotund and all turned out in their "best".

They have that fat, purply-veined facial look which I suspect comes from far too many days drinking pints at 11am and following it with bottles of cheap whiskey before 6pm. "Best", in this part of the world, seems to mean putting on a greasy blue blazer stuck with wispy white hairs and flecks of 70-year-old dandruff. I half expect my driver to open his blazer and proudly offer a look at his medals.

He doesn't have one for driving. It's 20 mph all the way, and a navigational error means we end up inside the nuclear testing facility at Harwell rather than the innovation centre where I'm headed.

However, my man on the return journey was to be congratulated both for his forthcoming political views, and the fact he managed to get me back for the 13.30pm to Paddington with a deft shortcut and a speedy piece of overtaking.

For an entertaining sidestall to the day's activities, I thank you, old men of Harwell.