I approach cab drivers with some trepidation, especially if I'm not crossing town from Lyulin to Mladost. Shorter distances can be greeted with an impenetrable look of boredom, followed by the silent wagging of a finger in decline. On several occasions, I've wondered whether I shouldn't apologise for assuming a local cabbie would be inconvenienced driving for a mere three leva.  A couple of times, when the stakes were high, I simply barged in, pleaded and offered double what I knew it would cost, just so the driver would deign to deliver me more or less on time to an important appointment. And I still felt the driver thought he was doing me a favour.

This morning it all started relatively well: the second guy I approached motioned me inside the car, seemingly willing to drive me from the corner of Shipka Str and Evlogi Georgiev Blvd to Todor Alexandrov Blvd and Boris. Before I could launch into my Holly-Hunter-in-Breaking-News impersonation and tell the guy in great detail how to avoid heavy traffic and get there quickly (I drive that route regularly), he had already decided to plunge into the traffic jam of Evlogi Georgiev going toward Orlov Most (Eagle Bridge), which then meant sitting in even heavier traffic on Tsar Osvoboditel all the way to TZUM.

Fifteen minutes, three leva and some 200 metres later, the driver lit a cigarette. The strong soapy scent of the air-freshener was bad enough, but the odour of Marlboro lights smoke added nausea to my pounding headache.

I thought it couldn't get worse than that, but just then the driver turned on the radio. Now the back speakers blared chalga in my ears, which seemed to put the driver in a better mood, for he stopped honking and started tapping on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music.

At first, I had said nothing, following some instinct to avoid conflict. Now I didn't know where to begin. Finally I threw three leva on the front seat, jumped out of the car and slammed the door as hard as I could behind me.

Outside, the air of smog-encased Sofia felt refreshing and in 15 minutes of brisk walking I had reached my destination ahead of time. My mood improved, I went about my day, yet I couldn't quite shake off a feeling of regret: I should have spoken to that driver, for how can I want things to change if I chicken out of demanding it from those who can enact it?

So here is my appeal to you: the next time you get into a filthy cab, or you choke on your driver's cigarette smoke, or the air freshener is so overwhelming that it gives you a headache, or you're forced to listen to music you don't like, or the driver has to keep the window down because his driving on gas and it smells, or any of the other occurrences that make cab service terrible in this city, please say something. Say it calmly but firtmly.  It'll take a lot of objections to help cab drivers understand that they are in the business of service, not torture, and we better start soon.