I did a job on a cab driver in Barcelona, once. As has long been my habit, I tend to sing when I've had a few, so I was sitting in the back of his cab warbling contentedly to myself. I’d been in town for a while and had already visited several of the local water holes. I must have been in good voice, because the poor man thought he had lucked on to a celebrity. Far be it from me to disillusion him.

I could do a pretty fair imitation of Nat King Cole, and I had the cabbie when I started singing one of King Cole's Spanish hits. He just couldn't figure out why Nat, the King of Cole, was headed for the Red-light section of the Ramblas.

Anyway, he got a big tip for his trouble, and I hope I didn't damage Nat Cole's reputation too badly. He was very popular in Spain at that time because he had recorded several songs in Spanish. The Spaniards flatly refused to believe that he couldn't speak Spanish and was just parroting the words.

I know there was one Barcelona taxi driver who'd swear on his grave that Nat Cole could, indeed, speak Spanish as well as sing it. I did the same thing a couple of other times, but I wouldn't tell the drivers my name; I'd just tell them to guess who I was. For some reason, they never came close to my real identity.

 So ends another vignette from the life and travels of T.P. Woody.