The Knowledge

Received a small blue book from the Public Carriage Office. In it long lists of double destinations. The first one being:
Manor House to Gibson Square
Well, I knew Manor House, knew where it was. Gibson Square? Never heard of it. Without thinking too much, went and bought a street directory ... looked up Gibson Square ... a few more besides ... decided to call it a day and again, promptly forgot all about "cabbing" ... until one morning, a letter dropped through the box saying I was to present myself down at Lambeth ... even when I arrived casually there, and sampled the atmosphere of feverish anxiety, still did not take a great deal of interest.
Men standing about in one's and two's, calling in hushed tones, long lists of streets, roads, lefts, rights and forwards. Never knew a soul or did have much idea what was going on. Vaguelly recognised one of my old messmates from H.M.S. "Diadem", saw little point in bringing all that up, said nothing.
Men visibly blanched as their name was called to enter one of the three offices, a look of grim determination coming to their faces.
Finally my turn.
Went into one of the small offices, a tall thin man, a Mr. Wicks, as he introduced himself, sat at the desk which had nothing on it other than my file. He was quite affable. Didn't feel any of the aggression being shown by the other inmates of this institution.
"How have you been getting on with the 'runs'?"

Quite suddenly, realised had not been getting on with them at all ... the long lapse between my getting the "Blue Book" and getting in front of the desk, not an office oversight ... a reason ... supposed to be out on my little moped, which I did not possess.

We chatted, mostly about myself. Told him the story of "the old iron pot" ... which he laughed at, some people do. He became serious ...
"Now, could you take me from the 'Norfolk Hotel' to the 'Borough Polytechnic'."
Not the slightest idea where the Norfolk Hotel may, or may not, have been. As for the poly, guessed it would have to be over a bridge, which immediately precluded anything may have remotely known.
"Oh well" he said philosophically to my silence. "Try Guildford Street to Highgate West Hill."
Highgate rang a bell ... not too sure ... possibly somewhere past Camden Town, about the extent of my "knowledge". Guildford Street? Did not have the slightest!
Mr. Wicks said nothing, smiled as he passed me my appointment card ... fifty six days.
Still did not buy a bike, or put myself out very much, feeling confident I could find my way about just reading the map, unaware the area covered is in the region of eight hundred and forty square miles, a reasonable knowledge being required for most of it and an intimate knowledge of the central areas being obligatory.
Did not know I was expected to declaim in great detail. If you knew the colour of curtains, or the way the bricks ran, in passing ... so much the better. If you knew the intricacies of cutting across the labyrinth of Islington ... then you were the man.