Toronto cabbies are incredibly friendly, but a grumpy French Canadian one let the side down

French Canadians manage to be even surlier when dealing with the general public than the French, and from the moment we hailed his taxi it was made clear to us that we were a huge nuisance

Festivus is a holiday celebrated by those seeking an alternative to the commercialism and pressures of the Christmas holiday season (AP)

The inimitable George Burns once said: “Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family… in another city.” I would wholeheartedly agree with him, except that in my case it’s another country.

We are in Toronto for “Festivus” and reunited with my extended Canadian in-laws. Although the kids are disappointed that there will be no snow in Toronto this Christmas we are all over-excited to be here. If I’m honest, Toronto is not one of my favourite cities. It’s like a polite New York. It lacks the visceral excitement of great American cities but it certainly has its own unique charm.

One of the things that I particularly love about the place is the taxi drivers. Toronto is pretty much the most culturally diverse conurbation in the world. More languages are spoken here than anywhere else, and nowhere is this reflected more than among its cabbies. Every time I hail one I take a global lucky dip.

In the past two days I have been driven by: an Eritrean, a Laotian, a Ukrainian, a Libyan, a Cambodian and, letting the side down somewhat, a very grumpy French Canadian. French Canadians manage to be even surlier when dealing with the general public than the French. I rather love this “couldn’t give a toss” approach to life but it’s not to everyone’s taste.

From the moment we hailed his cab it was made clear to us that we were a huge nuisance. He huffed and puffed when he had to clear his lunch from the passenger seat; he sighed when we told him where we wanted to go; and he shrugged and sulked when I tried to engage him in conversation. It was only when we arrived at our destination – we were off to catch a show – that he started to speak, but only to tell us that he had seen said show and that it was “rubbish”.

Our Gallic friend was the exception, however. Toronto cabbies are incredibly friendly and have rapidly picked up the Canadian attitude to life. A year or so ago, my daughter left her iPhone in a cab when we were off to Lee Garden, our favourite Chinese restaurant. Twenty minutes later, before we had even noticed it was missing, the Yemeni cab driver turned up at the restaurant and handed over the phone, refusing all recompense. On Saturday night, our driver, originally from Congo, spent the entire ride telling us where we should be taking the kids for fun days out, before recommending that Stacey and I check out the Warhol exhibition that is on in town.

After three nights in Toronto we headed off to the family homestead to bunker down for Christmas. It was the usual mix of chaos and cheer. Once again, I unsuccessfully tried to introduce the concept of bread sauce to an appalled and confused table of old-school Scottish Canadians. None of my Toronto cab drivers would have been so stuck-in-the-mud – except for the French Canadian of course, but I’d expect nothing less.