Exploring Seymour: A Day in the Life of a Taxi Driver
The alarm blares at 4:30 AM. I groan, fumbling for my phone in the darkness. Another early start. The rest of Seymour sleeps while I shuffle to the kitchen, desperate for that first hit of caffeine. Twenty years driving taxis in Seymour , and mornings never get easier. My name's Jack, and this is my patch. Seymour might be small—just a dot on the map between Melbourne and the high country—but it's got character you wouldn't believe. And after two decades behind the wheel, I've seen it all. The predawn air bites as I step outside. Frost crunches underfoot. My old sedan waits faithfully in the driveway, already prepped from the night before. I slide into the driver's seat, the leather cold against my back, and turn the key. The engine grumbles to life, reluctant as I am about the early hour. My first pickup is always the same: Mrs. Harrington, 87 years young, heading to the train station to visit her daughter in Shepparton. She's been my Tuesday passenger for s...