Solstice Silliness

In which The Author has a random afternoon in Llantrisant

A couple of months ago, I signed up to become a platelet donor with the Welsh Blood Service. This has involved making a few trips to the Royal Glamorgan Hospital, just outside Talbot Green. By a happy coincidence, my Iraqi near miss Karin relocated to Talbot Green during the summer. As my first appointment was shortly after she moved, we decided to meet up near the shopping centre and walk up to old Llantrisant, high on the hill above Talbot Green. It's a medieval town in a stunning location overlooking the upper Vale of Glamorgan, with steep, winding cobbled streets lined with quaint cottages, a fine church, a guildhall (recently restored and now the town's museum), the former workhouse which is now a base for artists and craftspeople, some old-style shops, a lovely little cafe which Karin and I visited while we were there, a smattering of chapels and a handful of pubs. There's also what remains of the castle, the base of the Welsh longbowmen who became England's secret weapon at the Battle of Crécy.

Anyway, I signed up for the Llantrisant page on Facebook after our visit there. As it's only a short bus ride from Pontypridd, with regular services running into the night (for hospital visits), I started wondering about visiting the place more often. For various reasons (mainly work commitments), I haven't been able to find the time. But I put Mark Alder's new book away on Saturday lunchtime, having reached a convenient point to down tools, thus freeing up the rest of the weekend. And yesterday was a perfect excuse to visit Llantrisant again.

One of the music groups I'm connected with on social media is the Llantrisant Folk Club. They shared something a few weeks ago that caught my eye. They were planning to be out and about in the pubs with the Mari Lwyd on the weekend before Xmas. On the Sunday, in fact.

You're probably wondering what the Mari Lwyd is. Well, all will be revealed …

I checked Traveline Cymru and, lo and behold, there are buses on a Sunday. They don't exactly mesh with the trains from Aberdare, but it still made a nice afternoon a real possibility.

I set off from Aberdare on the 1053 train yesterday, with patches of blue sky and brief flashes of sunshine overhead. I arrived in Pontypridd half an hour later, leaving me time for breakfast in Thereisnospoon (opposite the station) before catching the bus. So far, so good … until I stepped onto the platform and the heel of my right boot came off. It didn't break completely, but managed to cling on by a narrow strip of material. I got as far as the pub without losing it altogether, ordered my breakfast, and managed to scrounge some duct tape from the back office. It was a running repair at least, and I knew it wouldn't last long. Then the waitress told me they'd run out of Quorn sausages, so we had to arrange a substitute breakfast. Fortunately, she was tall, slim, very pretty, with gingerish hair and a good personality, so I was quite happy to chat to her for a couple of minutes.

I left to catch the bus, just in time for the heavens to open. I didn't exactly hobble to the bus stop opposite St Catherine's Church, but the water didn't do a great deal for my temporary repair. I got on the bus, paid my £6.60 return fare to Llantrisant, and sat back to enjoy the journey which I'm starting to know now.

[A digression: £6.60 is the same price as the daily cap on Oyster card fares in Zones 1 and 2 of the Transport for London map. That buys you unlimited travel by bus, Tube, and train in a fair area of the capital. Here in Wales, it gets you a half-hour bus journey between two neighbouring towns and back again. Go figure …]

Anyway, I got off the bus at the Wheatsheaf, a pub which has recently closed down, and made my way into the centre of town. My first port of call was the local shop, where I was able to buy a roll of tape, and then I walked around to the castle and guildhall to take a few photos. But my heel was coming undone again, so I repaired (geddit?) to the nearest alehouse for a second attempt at a repair job.

I should mention that, for yesterday's expedition, I was wearing a white turtleneck sweater (a British turtleneck, not an American one), a black pleather skirt to mid thigh, black tights and my boots, which come to just below the knee. I also had on Karen's old purple velvet jacket, which she gave me when she outgrew it. I wore a skirt the day I was with Karin as well – in fact, today marks six months since I ditched the jeans and T-shirts and adopted female attire as my default option. But I didn't know how my change of image would go down in a pub in a strange town.

I strolled into the New Inn and ordered a glass of Pepsi without a murmur from any of the customers or staff. In fact, one young woman who came in with a group of friends just after I sat down told me she loved my boots. That was pretty cool, I thought.

I sat by the window, wondering what the mobile reception would be like. That solved one problem that's been preying on my mind since the start of the Vanishing Valleys photographic project (see Where Do We Draw the Line?). Llantrisant definitely isn't in the Valleys – there was excellent 4G coverage from EE. That seems to be as good a benchmark as anything else. Then I messaged Carys to let her know I'd arrived.

Carys, last seen in this blog some years ago (see Educating Nancy), is an Aberdare girl I met between finishing work and starting university. She moved with her young son to Tynant, near Beddau, a few years ago and I haven't seen her since. Like me, she also went back to university as an immature student, in her case to study Enviromental Conservation Management. She's always been passionate about green issues, so it was the perfect degree for her when she took up the reins again.

We're still in touch and, in fact, she tipped me off about last year's Mari Lwyd event. If I'd had a bit more notice (or a lift), I would have gone over. Tynant is a short drive from Llantrisant (it's even on the bus route), so it made sense for us to arrange to meet up for a pint this time. She replied, 'I love the New Inn', which was a good start. I found a corner table with two seats and watched groups of people coming in for lunch. It was really busy (unsurprisingly) and the staff were working flat out to try and cope with the orders at the bar.

Carys walked in just as I was about to get a pint. She nudged me from behind, and then we gave each other a big cwtch. She was with an older woman named Julie, whom I recognised from Carys's photos online, and a chap named Ray whom I didn't know. They are friends of Carys's from Tynant. Carys and Julie have been recognised by the local authority as Community Environmental Champions (which is how I recognised Julie). Julie bought us a round, and four people got up and left just in time for us to grab their table. I got my jacket and we sat down for a good chat.

It turned out that Julie and I have a mutual friend in the form of Rowland, the former editor of my local paper. He went on to be a press officer in the Wales Office, and then did the same role for an Assembly Member in Cardiff. Julie was a news editor with BBC Radio Wales. (It's a small world, isn't it?) She was very interested in my work, which is rather different from the sort of editing she used to do. Carys told me that Julie's involved with just about every committee you can imagine, and Carys is pretty much her protégée.

The conversation was rambling, the beer was going down a treat, the bar was full of people chatting and laughing, and then the door burst open and Carys shouted 'It's here!' That was the start of the weirdest ten minutes of the entire day.

I promised you an explanation of the Mari Lwyd. To save me the trouble, here, borrowed from Facebook, is a contemporary take on things, followed by the photos I took yesterday.

 

This silliness lasted for ten minutes or so, and was great fun to watch. I'm going to try and network in with the people from the club in the new year (because Carys is getting to know everyone around the area now) and see if we can tempt them into Jacs at some point.

Julie and Ray made their excuses and left after a second pint, so Carys and I made our way to the Bear, in the Bull Ring – the little square at the centre of the town, where the main road runs. There's a statue there of one of the town's famous Victorian inhabitants: Dr William Price. I won't try and sum up this remarkable man in a paragraph. Instead, I'll link to the official Llantrisant website, where you can read about him for yourself.
It's a great statue, and my good friend Alwyn Isaac (a very gifted artist, orginally from Tonyrefail but now living in Aberdare) did the slate carving on the information plaque. We asked a family who were coming up from the Bear if they'd take a photo of us with the good doctor. One of the daughters borrowed Carys's phone and here's the result:

Please note that I was standing on the ground and Carys was standing on the plinth. It's the first time she's ever been taller than me.

Sitting in a cosy armchair in the Bear with a pint of beer in front of her, Carys told me how her life has turned around since she moved to Tynant. When she was in Aberdare she was unemployed, taking a lot of drugs, getting into bad company, and generally losing track of her life. Since moving away (only a few miles as the crow flies), she's cleaned up her act, she's working in a local shop (for local people) and doing some bar work as well; her son Jac (now eight years old) is doing well in school; she's involved in all sorts of community activities and environmental groups. The more she told me, the more pleased for her and the more proud of her I felt. She's always been a great pleasure to spend time with, but the new positive, focused, forward-looking Carys is a true delight and an unsung Welsh success story.

I'll be spending more and more time in and around Llantrisant in 2020, with platelet donation being possible every month (not just every three months, as with whole blood donation). Depending on the clinic schedule, I might not be able to catch up with Carys every time, but we're sure to see a lot more of other now that I'm getting to know the area. It's the sort of place where you'd need a car in order to live (semi-rural, and with only Pontypridd as the nearest big town), but after yesterday I felt I could easily move there and not really miss Aberdare too much. And what's not to like about a place where a bunch of mad people take a horse's skull on a pub crawl?

28 Days Later ...

In which The Author revisits one of his earliest posts

After my unexpected change of gender at the Ben Aaronovitch book signing last month, I decided to play on the joke and embark on a new experiment.

In a very early post called Skirting the Issue, I talked quite frankly about my interest in wearing female attire from an early age. Well, I've been slowly but surely making a transition towards wearing women's sweaters and tops exclusively. I think the last time I wore a shirt or a T-shirt was before my birthday. Since then I've been restricting myself to polo necks, turtlenecks, ruffled tops, or those nice Victorian style blouses I bought on eBay a couple of summers ago. Nobody has really said anything, apart from Mother, who commented that it was unusual to see me wearing colours for a change. (It was actually black and white instead of plain black, but I knew what she meant.) In fact, last time we met up for coffee, I was wearing a pink polo neck sweater and Mother didn't say a word about my change of image.

Just over four weeks ago – two days after the Ben Aaronovitch signing – I decided to go to the next stage and wear a skirt into Aberdare on a Sunday afternoon. I had a couple of pints in the Glosters with Rebecca (who hadn't noticed my skirt until I pointed it out), then strolled over to Jacs for the Sunday band session. I think Siobhan, our Resident Blonde Barbint, was a bit taken aback, but nobody else seemed to think anything was amiss. I did get soaked while walking through town, but that's par for the course two days after the solstice.

The following day, with my clothes still drying from the downpour on Sunday, I decided to put on a different outfit: a red sleeveless polo neck under a denim mini-dress. I strolled into the library and nobody said a word about my new outfit. Then Chazza messaged me to ask if I could meet her. She'd never seen me wearing a skirt before, although she knew about my predilection for nice tops. She wasn't taken aback especially, but when we sat in the beer garden of Thereisnospoon I could tell a few people didn't know what to make of the situation. However, everyone who knows me either didn't say anything and carried on as normal, or were extremely complimentary, or were very positive and supportive.

And that's been the situation ever since. On Thursday I'd arranged to meet Chazza again, so I went to Thereisnospoon in the afternoon. That particular day I was wearing a frilled high-necked pink top and a blue denim mini skirt. My brother was there when I strolled in, and he came to join me without even batting an eyelid. Then Chazza turned up with her boyfriend Chris, and neither of them made any comment about my clothes. We had a good chat, then the three of decided that a karaoke reunion was in order. We called into the Prince of Wales for a swift one before heading to the Lighthouse, and apart from a few snide remarks from blokes with great big bushy beards, everyone took the whole thing in their stride. Because, you see, the great big bushy beards are a defence mechanism to prove to everyone that they're real men – and real men don't wear skirts, do they? Unless, of course, there's a charity pub crawl from the rugby club, a Comic Relief event, a stag night, or a works outing … then the race is on for the naughty nurse's outfit and the French maid's uniform. Funny that, isn't it?

On the Friday night I was in Jacs for a gig, still in the denim skirt and a sleeveless top. Same on the Saturday night, when I wore an ankle-length Victorian style skirt I'd found on eBay. And on Sunday it was the inaugural Jacstonbury mini-festival, so it would have been daft not to wear an adventurous outfit. That was my first time in high heels since my first student days (a fancy dress event), and I somehow managed not to twist my ankle or break my neck.

The following day, Karin and I walked up to the Dare Valley Country Park (as I told you in Just a Song at Twilight). I was wearing a denim mini-skirt when she called into the library, and she didn't look twice when I got up to fetch a map of the country park. I thought someone with her background might have been a bit freaked out, but she didn't even turn a hair. Neither did my old schoolmate John, who came over to say hello while we were sitting by the top lake. Nor did anyone else we bumped into while we were walking around for the rest of the afternoon.

Knowing that I'd managed to survive a week in feminine clothes, I decided to try and last the whole month. And I have. I've put on a skirt or a dress every morning and gone into town, either on foot or on the bus. I've managed to mix up my outfits often enough so I'm not wearing the same things every day. I put on a Victorian-style outfit (complete with a hat) for the festivities marking the 150th anniversary of Aberdare Park. The following day I wore the same skirt with a lacy top, and when Karin joined me for the afternoon gig in Jacs she told me I looked 'really nice'. (I returned the compliment, naturally.) Last week I even went for a twelve-kilometre walk with Karin, Alex and Donna, and I wore a denim mini-dress and sensible shoes – not heels; after telling off a couple who were very badly prepared for the terrain a couple of years ago, I wasn't going to ignore my own advice.

I also found a very nice dress on the sale rack in Select last week, and wore it to town the following day. To my amazement, one of the charity shops had shoes in my size, so I bought them. The young lady behind the counter, who happens to be a friend of Liam's, really liked my dress and asked me where I'd bought it. The following day I bumped into my cousin Ceri, who's been out drinking with me a few times when I've been wearing a skirt or a dress. She was (still) jealous of my legs. I've even summoned the courage to go into places where I was expecting a negative reaction – such as the new craft ale bar that my friend Ray from the Grey Trees microbrewery has opened. (Then again, we didn't get a negative reaction when the Jacs gang and I strolled in there with Karin.) However, one such place where I was expecting problems was the Glosters, I'm ashamed to say.

I've been drinking in there since I sat my A levels. Elaine, whose parents used to run the pub, is an old friend of mine. Rebecca (her daughter and former Goth barbint of this very blog) works there on Sundays and a couple of afternoons in the week. They're both sympathetic to my cause. I wasn't sure how Wayne, Elaine's brother (who now runs the place) would react. He once upset Rhian and Steff by telling them not to sit so close together, as it was upsetting the natives. In fact, I'd made a point of only calling in when I knew Wayne was unlikely to be around.

Rebecca, Elaine and I had a good chat in there one afternoon a couple of weeks ago, and Elaine was very understanding of my position. I told her I'd been avoiding the pub when Wayne was there, and she told me in no uncertain terms that it was none of his business. On Thursday last week I called in to see Rebecca and to pay my lottery, and Wayne was heading through the bar at the time. He gave me a bit of an odd look, but we said hello and it was business as usual. Same on Sunday afternoon when I called in. I don't know if Elaine had marked his card beforehand, but if she did I'm very grateful to her.

On Saturday I attended a meeting of Project Unity, the LGBT+ group which Alex set up here in Aberdare over four years ago. That was a real revelation: to meet three people who have gone a lot further down the transition road then I ever dreamed of. Even when I was an outpatient at the Gender Identity Clinic of Charing Cross Hospital – I can't refer you to my blog as it's gone for ever – the doctors I spoke to weren't sure if I was a T-girl or just a fetishistic transvestite. I'm still not sure. But following a reshuffle over the weekend, I'm now Vice Chair of the group. Considering that I've always been too nervous about attending a meeting before, it's a quantum leap forward.

I do know that I'll be sourcing at least one wig and seeking out make-up tips from Jayne B. at some point before the summer is out. By this time next year I'll probably be Stevie pretty much full time. I doubt whether I'll go as far as Bekki from Merthyr, who is taking hormones and has changed her name for legal purposes prior to the inevitable surgery, but who knows what the future holds?

All I do know is that I've survived a month in a small town with no ill effects, received wholehearted support from my friends (which I'd expected), encountered only a few nay-sayers (which I'd also expected), had surprisingly pleasant encounters with relative strangers, and failed to send my young Iraqi friend into hysterics. I'll also take some small credit for laying the path for youngsters like James, who came into the Lighthouse on Thursday wearing the most spectacular heels in the entire building. The final hurdle will be Mother, of course, but if my brother didn't give me a second look the first time we bumped into each other, and hasn't said anything since either, that really will clear the way for Stevie to finally emerge.

The Ticket That Evaporated

In which The Author encounters another glitch in the Matrix

About six weeks ago I decided to initiate Operation Motorcycle Silencer for the fourth year in a row.

Every summer Aberdare Park hosts the Welsh National Road Races, organised by the Aberaman Motorcycle Club. I don't begrudge it for a second, because it brings a welcome boost to our local economy, it's a chance for old friends to catch up and to make new friends, and it puts one of the finest Victorian municipal parks in Wales firmly on the map.

But (as you can probably imagine) it's a fairly loud affair. Even though modern bikes run a lot more quietly than their older brothers, you bring a couple of thousand of the buggers into one place and the noise level soon becomes pretty challenging. As I live literally two streets from the circuit, as often as possible I've decided to spend the Saturday as far from Trecynon as I can possibly be. The first time, in 2013, I went camping in the Forest of Dean, which was an adventure in itself. (See A Brief Interlude and the subsequent entries for details.)

In 2014 I'd just finished jury service, so I was too skint to go anywhere. I think I spent the weekend in Mother's house, far enough from town to be out of earshot. I can't remember what I did in 2015, but I must have stayed fairly local. I had a hospital appointment in London soon afterwards, and I couldn't afford to go up twice in quick succession. In 2016 Operation Motorcycle Silencer really got into its stride. Rhian and her fun-loathing then-girlfriend Steff had moved in around the corner from me, and were dreading the noise as much as I was. I suggested a day trip on the Saturday, so we'd only have to struggle through Day 2. The girls agreed that I was on to something. I booked the three of us on the coach to London, where two of us had a very enjoyable day. (No prizes for guessing who didn't.) In 2017 we repeated the exercise, as I related in Operation Motorcycle Silencer (Phases 1 & 2) – with equally mixed results. In 2018 Rhian and I still managed to get out of town by going to see the superb War Horse in Cardiff. Three years in a row is a pretty good track record.

This year posed a bit of a problem. With Steff out of the country and Rhian out of the picture, I was left to my own devices. But after receiving a 25% discount voucher from National Express, and with the latest copy-edit running on schedule, it seemed that London was a distinct possibility. I grabbed the offer and booked my ticket back in June. Or so I thought …

Anyway, I don't remember printing out my ticket, which I usually do straight away. After nearly getting my fingers burned on my birthday, when I had 3% battery life on my mobile in Trafalgar Square and an e-ticket that needed to be shown in Victoria Coach Station, I've been eschewing the paperless option. I must have been in the library when I booked the coach, so why I didn't do it straight away is a mystery. Maybe 7 June was a wayzgoose. I can't remember.

On Wednesday afternoon it dawned on me that I needed my ticket, so I logged on at a library PC and hunted through my emails for the booking confirmation. Nothing. I checked my other email inbox in cae I'd used the alternative account. Still nothing. I returned to my laptop to dig a bit further. I couldn't even find the booking on the National Express website. Then I had this email from National Express, even while I was scouring my inboxes for any sign of the ticket.

Well, that fucked everything almost as comprehensively as if Boris Johnson and Donald Trump had organised a joint birthday orgy. Let me explain …

Last time I came back from London, at the end of May, the coach took so long to get to the M4 that we had about ten minutes to spare before the last train ran down from Cathays. (The station is about a minute's walk from the Cardiff University coach stop.) However, Sophia Gardens is on the other side of town, a good twenty-minute walk from Cardiff Central, and probably the same distance from Cathays. If I'd been treating that as my destination, I think Rowland or Maria would have had an unexpected house guest for the night.

I made a note of the reference in the email and went outside to make the phone call. After a couple of minutes in a queue I spoke to a very helpful guy named Neil. I outlined the situation, and explained that Sophia Gardens wasn't a viable alternative for people travelling into the Valleys. Especially if the time margin is as tight as it was last time. Neil understood where I was coming from, and said he'd see what he could do. At which point the plot thickened even further.

Neil searched his computer and couldn't find any record of a booking under either of my email addresses. He found several previous bookings (of course) but nothing for this Saturday. I mentioned that I'd used a money-off voucher, so he checked that subsystem as well. Nothing. He asked me if I minded holding while he spoke to a colleague, which I was happy to do. After a couple of minutes he came back on the line. He asked me if I could find proof of the transaction on my bank statement. I told him I'd have to check and get back to him. Could I have paid via PayPal? Well, possibly, but once again I'd have to check and get back to him. Get ready for the next plot twist, boys and girls …

My Nationwide statement didn't show any transactions for 7 June. Neither did my PayPal account. It didn't make any difference, as – even if the ticket did mysteriously reappear – I'd have been very reluctant to gamble on that last train to Aberdare.

In a further plot twist, Karin is moving to Talbot Green next week. We're discussing plans to spend tomorrow together, probably out of Aberdare to avoid the noise. So maybe it's not a bad thing after all.

William S. Burroughs wrote a famous experimental novel, published in 1962, called The Ticket That Exploded. Well, mine was The Ticket That Evaporated. I must have taken the Red Pill on 7 June, as I'd obviously conducted the whole transaction in some virtual simulation of the Real World. I emailed Neil at National Express yesterday morning to thank him for his help and patience. I attached my Facebook screenshot and told him I hope he has a better weekend than the one I had planned. Mysterious, isn't it …?

Why Make Life More Complicated?

In which The Author installs – then uninstalls – an app

(I already had a working title for this entry, then an ad popped up on Spotify this lunchtime which absolutely fucking nailed it!)

Before Xmas last year, I decided to try and achieve one of my life's weird ambitions and learn a few useful phrases in Japanese. It's a long story which will become an entry in its own right (and possibly a stand-up comedy piece), but for now I'll cut to the chase.

A couple of months ago I was in WHSmith (that's the way the company lays out its branding these days, apparently) and I came across a Berlitz Japanese phrase book and dictionary. To be honest, I was surprised to find that in the Pontypridd branch; in South Wales, the general assumption seems to be that the world is only as large as the Schengen area, and that's only the case if you read a newspaper with big words. There were no other Japanese books available, and precious little else if you were planning to venture anywhere that uses a non-Western writing system. Anyway, I decided that £6.99 would be a reasonable price for something to reinforce the large number of online resources I'd already found.

It was only when I was looking through it on the bus home that I noticed that there was a 'Free app included'.

My regular readers already know that I have very little patience with apps, as a rule. In fact, I put something on Twitter a few weeks ago to this effect, addressed to Samsung UK. I pointed out that when the TV ads for smartphones and tablets show a customer shooting through a complex procedure in mere seconds, and the subtitles say 'sequences shortened', they really aren't fucking joking.

In fact, I nearly abandoned an eBay purchase a few weeks ago, when not only would my phone not let me log into my eBay account (for which I'd changed the password merely seconds before), but it wouldn't let me log into my PayPal account either. I'd used PayPal ten minutes earlier to order a drink in Thereisnospoon, and it was set to One Touch login, so I shouldn't have needed to log in at all. Go fucking figure …

Anyway, back to this shitty Berlitz app. It's called Talk&Travel, and according to the inside cover of the book, this is what I needed to do to activate it:

1. Download the free container app called Talk&Travel Berlitz from the App Store or Google Play or visit our website at: www.berlitzpublishing.com/en/apps and follow the link to the App Store or Google Play.
2. Launch the app and open the Catalog screen. Scroll down to the bottom of the page until you see the 'Enter code' field.
3. Enter the code printed below in your book and tap 'Activate'.
4. Download the phrase book and enjoy your digital copy.

Well, that all sounds fine and dandy, doesn't it? And it was – until I actually downloaded the app. Needless to say, things were fucked up from the outset.

Instead of 'Enter code' being at the bottom of the Catalog Screen, it's a separate entry on the main menu. Once I'd found it, I entered the code very carefully, double-checked it, and got a message telling me it was 'invalid'. Quelle fucking surprise, eh?

I tried again. And again. Same result. What's the definition of insanity again?

I searched online and found contact details for the Tech Support people. So I sent them an email:

Hi I recently purchased the Berlitz Japanese phrase book and dictionary (UK edition, ISBN 978 178 004 497 2). This morning I installed the Talk&Travel app on my fully updated Samsung Galaxy J5, but have been unable to get the app to accept the code printed in the inside back cover of the book. I have looked at the Berlitz website, which has no useful advice. A second online search produced your contact details. Please advise. Thanks. Steve O'Gorman

A few minutes later I had an automated acknowledgement, followed soon afterwards by an email from a living, breathing Tech Support person. I think …

Dear Steve, Your support ticket #270423 has been answered by Alexander Bryzgalov. Dear Steve, Thank you for contacting Paragon Software Support Team! My name is Alexander and I will be handling your support request. Please accept our sincere apologies. Send us your purchase confirmation for the dictionary please (a receipt photo), if possible. I would find there some additional information I need in this case. Send us the photos of the top page and the page with the code too, please. Could you attach a screenshot showing the error? Best regards, Alexander Bryzgalov

Well, what's a guy to do?

Hi Alexander I bought the book brand new from WHSmith in Pontypridd, South Wales, some weeks ago. It is extremely unlikely that I still have the receipt, as I had assumed (stupidly) that an app advertised within its pages would work easily and in a straightforward manner, first time, without any need to fuck around by emailing customer service people based halfway across the world. That'll teach me an important lesson, won't it? I'm sincerely sorry for wasting your – and what is much more important, my – time. Steve O'Gorman

This morning I had an email telling me that my file had been closed. I don't really care, because on further reading it transpires that the app is only a six-month free trial anyway. I'd have had to pay for further use, and I bet by then I'll have found something far more useful and comprehensive.

We're less than six months from the year 2020, for fuck's sake! Surely these problems should have been ironed out at least a decade ago, never mind getting past beta testing stage and being unleashed on the general public. Is it any wonder that my brother smashed up his old faithful Thickphone halfway through a 'customer service' call a couple of weeks ago? Can you blame him – the new head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department – for turning his back on technology as much as possible? The older I get, the more tempted I am to do the same thing.

Just a Song at Twilight

In which The Author meets another 'exotic' young friend

I have a reputation for finding myself in the company of young ladies of distinctly non-European heritage, purely through random acts of kindess. I met Shanara, the Dippy Bint, because she hadn't made a move to get off the train when we arrived at Aberdare one very hot summer evening about twelve years or so ago. I gave her a little nudge to wake her up when I passed her seat, just to save her the panic of realising she was on the way back to Cardiff. She swore she was just checking her eyelids for holes, but I knew better. We started chatting on the way from the station, and we've been friends ever since. She introduced me to Naj and Tas as well, and more than once I've been spotting walking through Aberdare with one or other of the Bangladeshi Weird Sisters.

I met Jamila in similar circumstances, when we were first-year students at Glamorgan. We were in a forensic science practical session, and the tiny Nigerian girl working behind me had no chance of putting her specimens in the wall-mounted fume cupboard. I offered to help her, she thanked me very shyly, and we went back to what we were doing. A couple of days later I spotted her bringing a tray from the cafeteria, looking for somewhere to sit in the very crowded student union. I waved over to her and invited her to share the small table I was sitting at. From then on, we had lunch together whenever we could, we worked on projects together into the evenings, and she once outraged a fair proportion of Aberdare by travelling here by train on a Saturday morning to meet me. Nearly ten years later, we're still in touch via social media.

The latest random act of kindness happened about two months ago, in Aberdare Library. A very pretty young Asian girl had started popping in now and again to (presumably) do some college work. She was casually dressed, with blonde highlights in her hair, and extremely Westernised. We'd said hello once or twice when she was setting up her laptop on the other side of the table, but that was as far as anything had gone.

Anyway, on this particular afternoon I strolled in and found the mysterious girl sitting on the floor with her phone in one hand, typing one-handed on the laptop perched on her lap.

'Are you comfy down there?' I asked.

She laughed and explained that her mobile charger was faulty, so she was forced to hold the damn thing in while she was working. She was expecting an important call about her university course, so she needed to make sure she had enough juice. I asked her what phone it was, and luckily it was a Samsung, like mine. I had a rummage in my laptop case and found a spare charger.

'Try that one,' I suggested, 'and if it works you can come back up.'

Well, it worked, so she returned to the desk and we carried on working. I had a Wilbur Smith proof – which suggests that this part of the story coincides with the unfortunate Hannah episode – and my student companion had a paper on the composition of blood. (I had a sneaky glance at it when I was fetching another book from the stacks.)

That was intriguing. Was she a medical student? It's not your everyday reading material, after all.

Anyway, at the end of the day I started packing up my stuff and she asked me if I wanted the charger back. I told her I had at least another four at home, as well as a second one in my laptop case, so she was welcome to hang on to it.

See: random acts of kindness.

She thanked me, asked me when I'd be calling in next, and said she'd see me next time. Good start.

On her next visit, my new friend and I started chatting in a bit more detail. It turned out that she's from Manchester, and (by a strange coincidence) she's studying forensic science at Liverpool. Hence the blood composition paper. She showed me the project she's been working on, and I think she was quite pleased that I understood some of the basic principles. I did ask her why she'd just suddenly turned up in Aberdare, and teased her that she was a Dexter-style criminal mastermind on the run.

Anyway, I didn't see her for a while after that, because I guessed she had exams. She did call in very briefly about a fortnight ago and we had a brief chat. I didn't have a book to work on that day, so I was working on the plans for this year's sponsored walk in aid of Anthony Nolan. I showed her some of the photos I'd taken around Waterfall Country, outlined the route briefly, and gave her one of the flyers I'd had printed a couple of days earlier.

'We're really desperate for BAME people to sign up for the Tissue Register,' I told her, and she looked puzzled. 'Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic', I added. 'Have you not come across that before?'

Apparently she either hadn't encountered the abbreviation, or I'd pronounced it entirely wrongly.

'I wasn't implying that you're a bit crazy,' I reassured her, and she laughed.

'I am a bit,' she said.

That was the first time we learned each other's names. Hers is Arabic for 'twilight'. But she uses a different name – Karin – online, so I'll use that name here (even though I call her by her real name). I still hadn't solved the mystery of why she was in Aberdare, and I hadn't been able to identify her accent, so she was an International Woman of Mystery.

Anyway, Karin called in on Monday afternoon to check her emails and we started chatting as usual. I was sorting through old photos I've taken in Waterfall Country over the years, trying to find a nice one to make into a picture postcard. Karin asked me again about the sponsored walk, as she loves fresh air and exercise, but she hasn't done much exploring around here. I borrowed the OS maps from the librarian and showed her the proposed route, from Penderyn to Pontneddfechan. When I told her it was about twelve kilometres, she asked me how many miles were in a kilometre. I said she was far too young to know about Imperial measurements, and she told me that they're still in use in Iraq.

Well, that solved the mystery of her nationality, at least. I kicked myself for not recognising her accent, because I worked with an Iraqi guy named Maz when I worked in Blackwells. Then again, I expect there are as many regional accents in that huge country as there are in the whole of the UK.

We sat in the library for a while, chatting and trying to connect to the Wi-Fi, before I suggested getting some fresh air. I suggested a walk around the Dare Valley Country Park and Karin jumped at the chance. So we packed up our stuff and set off to the Gadlys Pit entrance.

It was shady and cool on the path into the Country Park, and it was nice to be away from traffic noise and the usual library hubbub. On the way I showed Karin some of the old industrial remnants, told her how the Country Park came into existence, and chatted about the Cynon Valley in general. In return, more of her life story came to light. She didn't tell me about her early life in Iraq – probably a traumatic time to say the least – and I didn't ask her about it. But her subsequent adventures were quite revealing.

As I'd guessed, she hadn't just come to Aberdare by chance. (Who does?) While she was in Liverpool she'd met a boyfriend whom her parents didn't approve of. (I'd sort-of seen this coming, to be honest. I told her about the number of times Shanara and I had had to take detours through the back streets to avoid being seen by any of her many cousins.) Anyway, Karin had no choice but to disappear. An organisation which helps vulnerable women to relocate found her a place in Aberdare, which is where she's living now. While she likes it here, she hasn't had chance to make many friends yet. She goes to the gym and the library (obviously), but socially she's been feeling a bit isolated. And I could tell that she was pleased to have someone to talk to about these difficult issues.

It doesn't take long to walk to the Cascade. She took a selfie of us with the waterfall in the background before I showed her the bottom lake. Then we cut up through the woods to the top lake for a sit down and a quick drink of water. While we were there my old school friend John came along and I introduced him to Karin. In fairness, John knows me well enough not to bat an eyelid at a Muslim girl thirty years my junior. We continued around the lake, then followed the river Dare back to the road through the country park. Unfortunately we were too late to catch the Visitors' Centre, as I wanted to show Karin the model of the old Cwm Viaduct. But we have pencilled in another visit when she's back after her graduation ceremony.

We walked back along the Dare–Aman line, and when we got to Aberdare I told Karin that she could continue to Aberaman along the same route. So that was what we did. She wanted to drop her shopping off before heading for her yoga class, so I called into the Rock for a quick glass of Coke before meeting her on the corner. We walked along Cardiff Road, and I showed her the short cut to the Ynys from Violet Street. When we got to the entrance of the sports centre, she thanked me for a fun afternoon and gave me a little hug (which she initiated). That rounded the day off perfectly.

I'm not so naive as to think Karin and I will ever get anywhere further than that little hug. She's already estranged from her family because of her boyfriend; it's more important that she concentrates on trying to build bridges with them, than going even further off their radar. She's going to find her graduation day rather empty without her family to support her. And I've had enough Muslim non-girlfriends to know the reality of the situation myself. I suspect that I'm playing safe (again) by meeting a totally unattainable girl, because then there's no pressure on either of us to be anything more than just good friends. But if I can introduce Karin to some good people, show her some interesting aspects of Valleys life, and help her enjoy her time here, that's the biggest act of kindness I can possibly offer her.

This Book is Dedicated to ... Oops! Bugger!

I had my second encounter with the popular (and eccentric) Urban Fantasy author Ben Aaronovitch yesterday. He was signing copies of his new novella The October Man at a new independent bookshop called Storysmith, a short distance from the centre of Bristol. I copy-edited the manuscript last year, so I was quite excited to learn that he was touring the UK to promote this one. On the bizarre grounds that it's cheaper and – slightly – more convenient to go to an event in a different country than it is to get to Wales's second city, I decided to pop along and say hello.

Bear in mind that I'd had a nice chat with Ben at his signing in Swansea last year. I'd also had a good chat with Stevie Finegan, Gollancz's publicist, while we were queueing to meet the man himself. Since then Stevie and I have often chatted on Twitter – mainly about her prodigious healthy appetite and her strange taste in ornaments.

More by luck than judgement (First Great Western made me feel quite nostalgic for Arriva Trains Fails), I was able to get to the bookshop a few minutes before Ben and Stevie did. She recognised me when I said hello, but Ben looked a bit vague until she jogged his memory. Stevie told me afterwards that he's quite forgetful anyway, but that was just a taster of the fun to follow.

The bookshop was packed for a lunchtime signing, including a lady who was at the Swansea signing and whose travel arrangements had also been buggered up by First Great Western. It turned out that we'd arrived at Temple Meads at the same time; if only we'd seen each other on the platform, we could have shared a taxi to Bedminster.

Ben gave very entertaining answers to some great questions, and then sat down at the front of the shop to sign everyone's books. To speed things up a bit, Stevie was writing everyone's names on Post-it Notes, which she then stuck to the front of the books before we got to the signing table. This is what she wrote on mine:

When I got to the table, I could tell that Ben's relentless criss-crossing of the mainland was starting to take its toll. He wrote a name in the book, and I looked at Stevie.

'He's dedicated it to you,' I said.

We all laughed, and Ben made a hasty correction. Sort of …

'That's the third one I've buggered up this week,' he replied.

As a result, I have a unique signed copy dedicated to my female alter ego, Stevie. As I said on Twitter in the evening, it was an easy mistake to make. After all, Ms Finegan and I have much the same measurements (distributed rather differently, of course).

Where I Go in My Dreams (Part 23)

In which The Author finds a place to revisit and one to avoid

I had a strange semi-lucid dream this morning, possibly fuelled by the painkillers I had to take in the early hours. (My shoulder is playing up again.) It was probably inspired in part by the many walks I've taken around the Cynon Valley in the last year and a half. I've been narrowing down possible routes for this year's sponsored walk in aid of Anthony Nolan, and also the cycling event I've outlined a couple of times.

It might also have something to do with this street in Merthyr Vale – currently scheduled for demolition, I've been told – which I stumbled upon at the end of April, while exploring the Trevithick Trail north from Abercynon.

To begin with I was on the 'old road' between Penrhiwceiber and Abercynon. That doesn't sound especially interesting, as it's pretty much one long stretch of ribbon development with side streets branching off now and again. But in my dream I'd somehow found my way to a back lane, separated from the main road by a steep bank and a dry stone wall. Thinking it might be an interesting diversion for the cyclists, I decided to explore it.

I went down a gentle slope for a few minutes, with no vehicle tracks or sign of recent activity. I was half-expecting it to end at a farm gate (I've been caught out like that a few times), but instead I arrived at what appeared to be a short row of abandoned cottages. I decided to stop and take a few photos before retracing my steps.

The outsides of the houses were pretty dilapidated, and the small front gardens were full of weeds and junk – broken kids' toys, bits of old cars, discarded furniture and domestic appliances, bags of rubbish that had split and spilled everywhere. It looked as though whoever had lived there had left in a hurry. The whole place was extremely eerie, and (even though I was dreaming) I was thinking about the terrifying episode of Torchwood called 'Countrycide' the whole time.

I was making my way around to the back of the row when I realised that the houses weren't abandoned at all. There was at least one very large family still in residence. Suddenly a whole gang of youngsters, scruffily dressed and unkempt, had appeared from nowhere. They were sitting on the low back wall or scattered around the broken furniture. A minute later they were joined by a small group of adults ranging from their late teens to (probably) mid-sixties. They seemed to be descended from travelling folk (or were possibly just squatting), as the kids and teenagers had obviously never seen the inside of a classroom, and I'm not sure the adults had either.

I explained that I'd managed to get lost while exploring the path, and apologised for invading their space. They weren't aggressive by any means, but I felt very intimidated the whole time. One of the men, who seemed to be the least frightening of the whole tribe, pointed to a gap between two of the cottages. He told me that if I followed this narrow, overgrown path for its length, it would take me back to the main road. I thanked him, apologised again, and made my excuses and left. Very quickly. When I saw a bus drive past the end of the path, I was extremely relieved to know I was almost back in civilisation again.

The second part of the dream took me along another path off the 'old road' – although how I got there is still a mystery. It was a very steep gravel slope, which you'd need a mountain bike or a 4×4 to negotiate if you weren't on foot. I followed it downhill for a while, came to a stile near a gate in a dry stone wall, and found another path branching off to the right. I had a feeling I knew where the right-hand branch would take me, so I crossed the stile and headed across a field full of sheep. Another stile led me to another steep downhill path, just compacted earth and bits of stone here and there. Further down I could see two large houses, so I decided to check them out.

This was a completely different story. The owners of one of the houses were in the front garden, which was well tended and welcoming. They were older than me, and were probably ageing hippies who'd bought this isolated spot as a retirement retreat. They could see I'd been walking for a while, and asked me if I'd like a glass of water. Their house was a warren of small rooms at odd angles to one another, decorated in a variety of bright clashing colours, and crammed full of books, records and interesting nick-nacks, rather like the home of two old friends in Aberdare. We chatted for a while until (in the words of Damon Albarn) I was rudely awakened by the dustman.

In real life, that is.

As with the strange village of Sychbant, which I visited in a dream nearly nine years ago, I'd love to revisit my new friends and their semirural hideaway in the South Wales Valleys. It could be time to heed the old advice and Keep Taking the Tablets.

A Superheroine is (Re)born

In which The Author finds a new leading lady

I appear to have accidentally stumbled upon the perfect person to take the lead role in the forthcoming The Incredible Vanishing Girl III.

She's Katie, my London contact with the Anthony Nolan charity. I knew she was on holiday the last time I emailed her, so I haven't bothered to follow it up until she was back in the office. About five minutes ago she emailed me, so I knew that if I rang her immediately I'd find her at her desk. By the time I got outside the library, she'd sneaked out for lunch. That's a new record, even by the standards of the two women who've featured in the earlier films.

Bi Bi, Baby

In which The Author gets his fingers burned yet again

Where to even start with this one?

Let's begin at the beginning, which seems logical enough in the circumstances.

About a year ago my good friend Vickie B. got in touch with me. She was running a very pleasant cafe in Mountain Ash, a few miles away from where we live, and was brainstorming ideas to make it into a real creative space. One of her suggestions was a writing group. Knowing that I'd done a couple of creative writing modules at university, Vickie thought I might be a good person to help get it off the ground. I called down for a hot chocolate one day and things didn't really go from there.

There is a flourishing creative writing group in the Cynon Valley already, you see. They're based in Aberdare Library, where they make a hell of a lot of noise in the 'meeting room' (which nobody thought to soundproof while they were partitioning off at least ten square metres of usable shelf space). As far as I can tell from my involuntary eavesdropping before I invested in some decent cans, it's a bunch of retired people churning out tired Valleys cliches about coal mines and fucking daffodils week in and week out. Not the sort of thing any real creative writer of my acquaintance would want to be involved with. So it seemed as though Vickie might have hit on a plan.

Unfortunately, Mountain Ash isn't exactly accessible by public transport after 6.00 p.m. It's a slight improvement on the rest of the area, but only insofar as they have buses at all. The idea ran into the sand and we didn't take it any further.

But I did meet one of Vickie's friends, who was interested in the idea as well. Her name is Hannah. Or, quite possibly, depending on what mood she's in, Katie.

That's a hint, boys and girls, that what follows is going to be a tale of yet another fucked-up bint. Skip to the next chapter if you like.

Anyway, Hannah (for convenience) was short, pretty, not far off twenty years younger than me, very talkative, obviously extremely enthusiastic about books and music, and not especially my type. She was studying with the Open University while working part-time as a carer and looking after her young son around his time in school. But we got on well, and we agreed that our subversive little group would be a good excuse to meet up again. And, like most creative ideas I get involved with, it crashed and burned before take-off. It could be that South Wales isn't ready for anything truly innovative and original. Or it could be that I'm the kiss of death. You decide.

Fast forward to the first weekend of December, when Jacs hosted one of its family-friendly Sunday afternoon gigs. They were all local performers – including someone billed simply as 'Hannah' – and I didn't recognise any of them from the photos on the poster. I couldn't have recognised the one girl anyway, as she was playing guitar while wearing a hat which effectively hid her face. Anyway, I was in the lounge when a short, pretty girl wearing a hat strolled in, said hello, and asked me where Gavin was. I asked her if he was expecting her, and she said 'I'm Hannah.'

The penny dropped. Her hairstyle had changed and she was wearing a hat, but it was the same young woman I'd met in Vickie's cafe. She bought a drink and we went into the music room, where she was first on stage. Her young son was there to watch the show as well, and I got roped into the family gathering.

Hannah's appearance in Jacs was the reason Gavin and I had to drive to Leeds and back twice in a week back in February. (And that's another story entirely.) Halfway through her set, the mixing desk died. Hannah clearly has the ability to channel the Ghost of Dr David Davies, who seems determined to put the mockers on us at every opportunity. She stood awkwardly on the stage for twenty minutes or so while we took the piss out of her. Eventually we managed to rig up a replacement desk for the rest of the gig. After her set, we had a couple of drinks together and added each other on Facebook.

We messaged each other a couple of times subsequently, but she isn't a Jacs regular so I didn't see her for ages. She would 'like' things I posted, and she'd occasionally post something for me to 'like', but we certainly weren't best cyberfriends. I didn't even know if she lived in Aberdare, as she didn't come out to pubs or gigs.

Things changed abruptly on the Friday evening after my birthday.

I was in the lounge with Gavin, competing with him head-to-head on artistic inability while we put the April posters together. About five o'clock I had a message on my phone. It was Hannah, asking if I was going to be in Jacs for the gig that night. I replied that I was already in the building, and she said she fancied an early evening pint. It wasn't long before she strolled in, accidentally crashing an EGM of the Media Team. She lurked at the bar with her pint until we wound things up, and then joined me and Ros (one of our resident photographers) for a chat in the lounge.

We made our way into the music room, bought another drink and settled in to watch the gig. Soon after that Hannah's sister joined us, and we had a good chat between the bands. A large amount of beer was consumed (with Hannah matching me pint for pint), and at the end of the gig we went back into the lounge for a last one while Gavin prepared to close up for the night.

Hannah went to the toilet and Gavin and Ian (our door supervisor and resident jack-of-all-trades) immediately pointed out something which – in retrospect – I probably wouldn't have spotted anyway. She was making a play for me.

I told them that I wasn't interested. Not only was Hannah not my usual type; it had been so long since there'd been a bint in my bed I really didn't know if I'd be up to the task. But the lads said that I might not get another chance, so I played my hand when she came back into the room.

To cut a long story short, I was doing the walk of shame through Aberdare Park at 7.00 on Saturday morning. Hannah had to drive to see her first client of the day, and dropped me off at the entrance to the park.

Needless to say, it had been a slow news week in Jacs, because on Saturday and Sunday my accidental hook-up was the talk of the place. Apparently Gavin had rushed home and woken Kate up to tell her the exciting scandal. Kate, in turn, couldn't wait to tell Rhian what had happened when she called in for a pint on the Sunday evening.

Ah yes … Rhian.

This is where things started to go wrong.

After she'd nagged me for ages, I showed her Hannah's profile photos on Facebook.

'Oh, I know her,' Rhian said. 'She used to work in the Black Lion.'

An alarm bell started to ring in my mind. You see, the Black Lion was Aberdare's semi-official lesbian bar back in the day. Not only were a fair proportion of the punters of the Sapphic persuasion, but pretty much everyone behind the bar (Rhian included, of course) was as well. Hannah would have been very young, so we wouldn't have remembered each other anyway. Even so, it wasn't the sort of thing I wanted to hear.

Hannah and I met up in the week for a late afternoon pint and pizza in Thereisnospoon, and we were joined by Dylan, her son. He's six years old and on the autistic spectrum. I did my best to engage his attention, but he's understandably reticent around new people. Hannah had signed up with an agency to work as a Learning Support Assistant in schools around the area, and had done her first shift that day. I think she wanted someone to chat to as much as anything. We had a nice time, and among other things we talked about the possibility of a mini-break in London during the Whitsun half term. For the first time since the summer of 2001 it seemed as if I'd met someone who was as keen on me as I was on her. Even though she'd said initially that she wasn't looking for a proper relationship (and neither was I), it looked as though we were heading in that direction.

We messaged each other several times every day (and often into the evenings), and met up for the gig in Jacs on the Saturday night. I bought her a T-shirt during my trip to London on 1 April (booked before we got together), which I forgot to bring into town when we took Dylan into Servini's on the Wednesday afternoon. We sang some very drunk karaoke in the Bush the following night (and Hannah changed her T-shirt in full view of everyone), after which I ended up at her place again. This was turning into the wildest involvement I'd had with a woman since Gema.

It all went to shit the following week.

Hannah messaged me on the Wednesday morning to see what I was up to. She'd had to request a deferral of her OU course because she was finding it difficult to do the assignments around her work and family responsibilities. She was off work and feeling a bit down. I could relate to that after what happened to my own university career in 2011. To cheer herself up, she'd had her hair cut. She sent me a selfie, and what I saw frightened me a bit – it was short, spiky, bleached, and definitely dykey. In fact, I teased her about it when she called into the library soon afterwards. We ended up having a cheeky pint in Thereisnospoon before she picked Dylan up from school. She dropped him into her parents' house in Aberaman before making her way back to town.

As soon as she'd gone, I got the proof of the new Wilbur Smith novel out, thinking that I might as well do some work on that in the meantime. I'd picked it up from the sorting office in Aberaman as soon as it opened on Wednesday morning, because I was out when the postman tried to deliver it on Tuesday. No sooner had I spread it out on the table than Rhian texted me her familiar message: Fancy a pint?

I told her I'd literally just got one in, so she made her way to Thereisnospoon and we chatted until Hannah returned. Almost the first thing she said was 'it wasn't fair' that I was having sex and she wasn't. (This from a girl who's not long come out of a fairly unstable relationship exacerbated by her ex's delinquent son.) I laughed it off, saying I'd waited long enough. Anyway, when Hannah returned Rhian immediately told her that she remembered her from the Black Lion. My mental alarm bell started to clang more loudly when they compared notes on people they'd known, and recounted pissed adventures they'd had after closing time. I did notice that Hannah was smoking a lot more than usual, and seemed to grab every opportunity to go outside with Rhian. I'm a non-smoker, so I was left in charge of the phones and their paraphernalia while they gossiped in the beer garden. Hannah's new hairstyle really wasn't doing anything to quieten my misgivings.

On the Thursday Hannah and I met up for a quick lunchtime pint in the Conway with Rhian and her grandfather. We'd told her tales about John, the living legend, and she wanted to see if he was as eccentric as we'd painted him. Once again, Hannah and Rhian seemed to spend almost as much time outside the pub as they did inside. We had a couple of drinks there before Hannah went to pick Dylan up, then she and I met in Thereisnospoon for a bite to eat before heading to Jacs. In the meantime, Rhian stayed in the Conway and got involved in the usual Thursday Club shenanigans.

By the time we got to Jacs, we'd had a decent drink all round. It wasn't enough to make us rowdy or disruptive – in fact, it got us nicely warmed up for the inaugural comedy night. It was lovely to catch up with my old friend Lorna, who's now on the stand-up circuit and who had put the event together. Phil came down and thoroughly enjoyed himself. We had a good crowd of friends, a superb atmosphere, and everyone had a great time.

But the constant visits to the smoking area continued unabated. Caitlan told me afterwards that she'd had her suspicions about the situation as well. Gavin, Ian and Nathan had also started to smell a rat.

Anyway, we repaired to the lounge for a last drink after the show ended, and then drifted away along Wind Street towards (ironically) the shell of the Black Lion. Nathan and Caitlan were heading to the Bush for a last one, so they were a little way away from us. Rhian told us she was going for chips, so she went on ahead. When Hannah and I got to the collapsed chapel, she asked me where I was going next.

I just said, 'Home.' I showed her my bag with the half-completed Wilbur Smith proof still in it.

Hannah looked a bit crestfallen and said she'd assumed I'd be going back to her place (at the top of Monk Street, about five minutes' walk from the town centre).

I said, 'I've got an early start in the morning. Anyway, I think the person you'd really like to go home with has gone to the kebab shop.'

We argued for a couple of minutes. I told Hannah that she hadn't been able to shake my hand off fast enough during the gig. She objected, but I knew what I'd experienced. At the end of the argument, she said possibly the strangest thing she could have said in the circumstances: 'I don't know if I'm gay.'

Please note: she didn't say 'I'm not gay' or 'I'm just bi-curious' or even 'It's you I want tonight.' She just said, 'I don't know if I'm gay.'

I looked her in the eyes and said 'I do.'

Then I walked away. As I was passing Thereisnospoon I spotted my friend Adrian's taxi parked up by the library. He knows my regular routine, so he tends to wait around in case I need a lift home. That night I certainly did.

When I got home, Hannah had messaged me on Facebook – something about me 'showing my true colours'. I replied that, on the contrary, she was the one who'd revealed her true colours. A minute later she messaged me back, saying that she never wanted to have anything more to do with me.

I replied 'Deal'.

Within thirty seconds she was unfriended and blocked on all fronts. It took me the same amount of time to do the same with Rhian.

On the Friday evening I told the gang in Jacs what had happened after we left the comedy night. That was when Caitlan and the others told me they'd had their suspicions about the whole situation. I obviously wasn't making it up, then.

Naturally, nothing happened the following week. It was the build-up to the Easter weekend, and I needed to get Wilbur Smith in the post before the bank holiday shutdown. That went in the post on the Wednesday lunchtime. Some time during the morning, I missed a call from an unlisted mobile number. (I keep my phone on Do Not Disturb mode when I'm in the library in a vain attempt to set a good example to everyone else who comes in.) The caller had rung off without leaving a voicemail. It could have been anyone, so I didn't bother ringing it back. If it had been important, they would have rung again.

I relaxed for the rest of the day, as I had an early start on the Thursday. My friends Liam and Lamby were in a new play in Maesteg, and I'd promised them I'd go along and support them. I didn't get back to Aberdare until early evening, so I went to the Glosters for a few well-deserved pints with Rebecca. I told her about the events of the previous week. She told me Rhian has earned something of a reputation for getting pissed and trying to get off with other people's girlfriends (even with her own cousins, on occasions).

I told Rebecca that, if that's the way they wanted to play it, they were welcome to each other.

Liam came down for a drink once he'd dropped his stuff off, and we stayed in Thereisnospoon until closing time before walking home together. It was a good way to forget about what had happened the previous week.

On Good Friday I went for a very long walk around Waterfall Country, just to try and get the whole situation into perspective. The more I thought about what had happened, and the feedback I'd had from my friends who also thought something didn't ring true, the more convinced I was that I hadn't misread the signs.

I got drunk watching a superb Led Zeppelin tribute in the night, woke up late, and came into town in time for a couple of pints before my friends the Spectrums started setting up for the Saturday night gig.

Phil and Susan (his girlfriend) came down for the gig, so I met them in the music room and we had a chat before the support band started. I went to get another pint and when I looked along the bar, Hannah was standing at the other end. I stood in my usual spot near the glass collection point, watching the support band. Hannah didn't make any attempt to catch my eye, and I certainly wasn't going to make any moves in that direction. After all, 'never' means never – it describes an event with a probability so vanishingly small as to be virtually impossible.

I was just giving her exactly what she'd wanted after the comedy night.

When I fancied another pint, the bar was thronged with people who'd had the same idea. I decided it would be quicker to go into the lounge and catch someone's eye from that side. As it happened, Lamby and some of the lads from Showcase were having a pint in there, and they invited me to join them.

I'd only been in there for a minute or so when Hannah came in and made a beeline for me. I just glared and her and said, 'Fuck off.' And, in fairness to her, off she fucked.

I was glad of an excuse to stay in the lounge, so I chatted to the lads for a while until Gavin popped his head in and asked me if he could have a word. I was expecting him to ask me if I could go glass collecting, which I usually do on busy nights.

Instead, he said, 'Hannah really wants to talk to you.'

I replied, 'I really don't want to talk to her.'

And I went back to chat to the lads.

After the gig wound up, Phil and Susan joined me and the regulars (Nathan, Caitlan and the rest of the pool team) in the lounge. And Hannah came in as well. She did her best to infiltrate our conversation while playing pool, but we studiously ignored her. After a while she got bored and gave up trying.

Gavin told me over the weekend that she'd called in on Easter Sunday, primarily to pick up her coat, but also to find out why everyone had been so 'funny' towards her the previous night. Well, if she can't work that out for herself, maybe she isn't as intelligent as I'd thought.

And as for Rhian …

I had a text from her one evening last week – her standard Fancy a pint?. Even though her number is no longer in my phone, her style is unmistakable. As it happened, I was on my way to the Welsh Harp at that very moment. But there was no reason to tell her that, was there? I didn't reply and deleted it immediately, in case I was tempted to tell her exactly what I thought of her after a few beers.

She did the same at the weekend. Same answer.

Yesterday afternoon I was coming out of Wilko in Aberdare and Rhian was in the Conway. She must have spotted me through the window, because when I crossed the road she shouted across at me. I just said, 'All right, Rhi?' and kept walking towards the Glosters. In fact, I changed course and went to Thereisnospoon, because I had a copy-edit to finish off and I thought I might as well do it when there wasn't an afternoon gig. She texted me a few minutes later, 'Are you ok?', but I deleted it immediately.

I emailed the book back to the publishers, and called into Jacs for a pint when the professional wrestling bout upstairs (I'm not making this up) was in full swing. That was when Gavin told me about Hannah's bemusement at getting the cold shoulder. I hadn't been in there long when Rhian tried messaging me on Facebook. I'd forgotten that you have to block people on both apps. Still, that's sorted out now.

So, what have we learned from this, boys and girls?

I've learned that any young woman who gets a job in a lesbian bar probably isn't just there for the cash-in-hand pay.

I've learned that a sexually frustrated lesbian can't be trusted around other people's girlfriends – even if the other person has been one of her best friends for over twenty years.

I've learned to keep away from bi-curious bints (as most women under the age of about forty seem to be these days) because they don't care who they sleep with as long as they're sleeping with someone.

And I've learned that when that alarm bell starts ringing in my head, I shouldn't do what we do with the fire alarm in Jacs every time it goes off for no apparent reason. One day we're going to reset it, thinking it's malfunctioning as usual, and the Fire and Rescue Service will have to disinter our charred remains from the smoking ashes of Bryngolwg.

And I hope at least one young lady has learned to be careful what she wishes for. She might just get it.

All is not lost, however. This recent escapade has given me an excellent idea for a business. It's a cafe-cum-meeting space aimed at sexually confused teenagers, who can discuss their feelings in a safe, non-threatening and non-judgemental environment. It's going to be called Try Before You Bi.

I'm a Non-entity ...

In which The Author pitches another new TV show

I had another idea for a TV programme a few weeks ago, following the phenomenal success of my karaoke and shots idea in the Philippines and Vietnam. (See Calling the Shots.) I always knew it was too extreme for Western wimps, but the Asian markets would lap it up. I'm still waiting to sign the contract with NHK in Japan, and when North Korea gets wind of it … Well, you can guess the rest.

This is also a reality show adapted from a successful existing format. (As a wise man once sang: 'There's nothing new under the sun, everything you think of has been done.') It's a simple enough idea, although it would be quite expensive to implement at first. That's where the advertisers and sponsors come in, to help fund the development stages and keep the programme on the air. As always, the public get to vote via email and phone, and the direction of each series will be determined by this democratic process.

The first step is to locate the agents or management companies for every so-called 'celebrity' photographed in the current edition of Heat magazine.* Then we write to them, inviting their clients to take part in a new prime-time TV show to be syndicated to networks right across the English-speaking world. Depending on how many of these Z-listers agree to come on board, we charter a suitable aircraft and fly them to an uninhabited island in the South Pacific. We tell them that hundreds of hidden cameras will be transmitting live feeds 24/7, and that the course of the show will depend on the public reaction to these people left to fend for themselves.

And I mean literally fend for themselves. We won't be sending a ship to replenish their supplies; there'll be no airlift of essential gear; Ant and Dec won't be sitting in a comfortable studio a short walk away from the 'jungle' in which our volunteers have found themselves. This shit will get very real very quickly. The guests will be left to their own devices. After a few days it will begin to dawn on them that they have no hope of rescue. It's sink or swim.

Thus the public themselves will decide whether this latest bunch of WAGS, soap actors, pop singers, amateur cooks and professional clothes horses are worth watching or not. If the viewers vote to discontinue the experiment, we respect their wishes. We switch off the live feed and bring the series to a close. No winners: just an essential service to improve the quality of the public discourse in the UK. In a couple of years' time everyone will have forgotten about the castaways anyway. By then we'll have found a new set of participants, a new island, and a whole publicity machine will be in place to drive market share for Season 2.

On the other hand, the personality clashes and conflicts which keep mass audiences focused on low-budget televisual garbage might be worth monitoring. In that case, the cameras will keep rolling. The world can watch and salivate as the latest overpaid wastes of DNA descend into Lord of the Flies-style savagery.

I still don't have a working title, but I'm sure I can come up with something in due course. If you'd like to help crowdfund the pilot show in the meantime, drop me a line.

* Other pointless gossip-filled shite publications are available

The Seven Waterfalls Walk

In which The Author goes exploring again

It's only the first week of April, but I'm already planning this September's Walking Together event in aid of Anthony Nolan. After the success of the 2018 walk (see Seventeen Miles Later), in which the team from Jacs Music Venue (Paul, Rhian, Liam, Kate, Betty Boop the mini whippet – who sensibly baled out halfway through – and I) raised a staggering £660.61, I thought we'd try and keep the momentum going.

With this in mind I set out on the mid-morning bus to Penderyn on Wednesday. It's the furthest north you can get from Aberdare by bus, just inside the southern boundary of the Brecon Beacons National Park. The Lamb Hotel in the village was the starting point for last year's walk along the Cynon Trail. It's also a good location to set out for Waterfall Country.

I've blogged a few times about the spectacular and sometimes challenging scenery of the upper Vale of Neath, and in particular the river system that converges a little way east of Glynneath. (For instance, see Further Up the River.)

I say 'river system' because, hydrologically speaking, it's a complicated little area. The river Nedd (or 'Neath', for English speakers) rises in the foothills of the Brecon Beacons, about five kilometres north-west of Ystradfellte, and flows pretty much southwards to the pretty tourist village of Pontneddfechan. A couple of kilometres north of the village, it's augmented by the river Pyrddin, which flows in from the north-west. Meanwhile, the rivers Llia and Mellte flow more or less parallel to the Nedd before converging a short distance north of Ystradfellte. (Ignore the screaming in the background – it's just the Firefox spell checker begging for mercy.) Further east again, the river Hepste flows south-west to meet the enlarged Mellte a few kilometres south of Ystradfellte. The ever-growing Mellte hits the river Nedd at Pontneddfechan, as does the river Sychryd, which flows in from the south. From here the Nedd flows south-west towards the town of Neath (or Castell Nedd). You can trace many of these rivers on the satellite image, and it gives you an idea of the topography.

What the satellite image doesn't show you is the plethora of waterfalls in the area. Probably the most famous of these is Sgwd yr Eira, a couple of kilometres north-west of Penderyn and a fairly easy walk from the Lamb Hotel. Follow the side roads through the village, go through a metal gate and follow the gravel path around to the right until you see two wooden posts pointing you towards the waterfalls. The path leads uphill across farmland, then over open moors before dropping to the gorge of the Hepste. There's a flight of steps built into the side of the gorge, so follow them down to a rocky path just above the river.

Sgwd yr Eira is famous because the only way to get from one bank of the river to the other (unless you wade across) is to walk behind the curtain of water. I've done this numerous times, including once with a mad Labrador in tow, and I managed to kill a camera by trying to photograph the fall from within the spray. But I took a chance on Wednesday and got a couple of decent photos.

Sgwd yr Eira from the southern approach

Sgwd yr Eira

This wasn't my first visit to the waterfall this year. I was there on Saturday morning as well, along with about twenty or thirty people taking advantage of blue skies and warm weather. But on Wednesday I had the place to myself for once. I always feel as if I've joined Faramir and the Rangers of Gondor when I'm behind the waterfall, as I was on Saturday morning.

The view from behind Sgwd yr Eira

The Hepste joins the Mellte about half a kilometre west of the waterfall, but there's no riverbank or footpath to take you to the confluence. Instead, there's another flight of steps which zig-zags up the slope to more open moorland. From here, I went west on well-made paths until I reached a downhill slope to Swgd y Pannwr, on the Mellte. I missed this out on Saturday as there were simply too many people enjoying the weather and the path was very crowded. But on Wednesday I had the place more or less to myself.

Sgwd y Pannwr

From here I followed the river upstream to Sgwd Clun Gwyn Isaf. (Or Sgwd Isaf Clun Gwyn, depending on which source you're looking at.) It's not easy to get to, and I didn't venture right up to the fall as the rocks were quite slippery. But it's an impressive multi-layered fall, as you can see.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn Isaf

Unfortunately, there isn't a direct route uphill from here, so I had to retrace my steps and climb back to the main path. It's a fairly convoluted trek along the course of the river to the final noteworthy waterfall on the Mellte, Sgwd Clun Gwyn.

As with all the falls in this area, what you'll see will depend on how much rain there's been in the previous couple of days. It's been a fairly dry March, so on Saturday the lip of the fall wasn't as wide as I've seen it on other occasions. But there were some people on the top of the drop, so you'll get an idea of the scale of the place.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn from the west

If you continue along the river path for another kilometre or so, you'll arrive at the 'Blue Pool' and the celebrated cave at Porth yr Ogof. But if you cross the Mellte at the footbridge, you can follow it downstream on the other bank and arrive at the other side of Sgwd Clun Gwyn.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn from the east

The path curves to the right and climbs to a gate near a farm lane. It's a short walk from here to the road from Ystradfellte to Pontneddfechan. I've walked this stretch of road several times (most recently on Saturday), but on Wednesday I tried something new. My friend Jonathan E. spends a lot of time in this area, and the last time I blogged about it he asked me if I'd ever been to Pont Melin-fach. I'd seen it signposted from various points in the Waterfall Country, but I don't think I'd ever been there before. So on Wednesday I decided to take the road less travelled. Or hardly travelled, to be more exact.

In fact, the only vehicles I saw while walking along the narrow road from Comin y Rhos were a quad bike driven by a farmer, and a Post Office van presumably delivering to the isolated farms scattered across this part of the national park. I didn't meet any other walkers either, which was a change from Saturday's hordes of visitors. After five minutes or so I passed the entrance to a farm. A short while later the winding lane crosses the bridge which gives Pont Melin-fach its name. (Pont is 'bridge' in Welsh.)

I'd arrived at the river Nedd, from where I had a rough idea where to go next. I can't be sure, but I think Mother and I have probably walked some of this stretch before. (We've explored Pontneddfechan and its surrounding area pretty thoroughly over the years.) Even so, I couldn't remember much of what I came across as I followed the Eilidr Trail downstream.

There are numerous small waterfalls on the Nedd, but the first impressive 'named' fall you come to is Swgd Ddwli Uchaf. I wasn't able to get very close to the falls on this stretch as the ground was quite treacherous in places, so I had to make the camera do the donkey work for once.

Sgwd Ddwli Isaf

I continued to follow the river until I came to Sgwd Ddwli Isaf, a short distance downstream.

Sgwd Ddwli Isaf

There were a few people about by now (it was early afternoon), and the Welsh weather had lived up to the old Crowded House song: Four Seasons in One Day. You might remember that we were forced to postpone last year's sponsored walk because we'd been hit by a named storm a couple of days earlier. Well, that's par for the course in this country. When I'd set off from Penderyn it was drizzling steadily. By the time I'd reached Sgwd y Pannwr we'd had a flurry of sleet; by Swgd Clun Gwyn the sun was out; when I was on the minor road the sky had definitely looked ominous, and now it was starting to rain again.

Just an average Welsh day in April

I had no alternative but to push on to the village, but luckily it was just a heavy shower. Naturally enough, within a couple of minutes the sun was out again. I continued downstream to Sgwd y Bedol, which is in fact a rather dramatic series of waterfalls in quick succession. I'm fairly sure Mother and I had been this far, at least, as it did look very familiar.

Sgwd y Bedol

The Nedd meets the Pyrddin soon after you pass Sgwd y Bedol (or shortly before it, depending on which direction you're walking). I crossed the Pyrddin using the footbridge and turned right, heading north-west to the final waterfall of the day: Sgwd Gwladus.

I have seen the curtain of water extending almost the full width of the shelf. But it's been oddly dry for a Welsh spring, so it was a bit of an anticlimax.

Sgwd Gwladus

From here, you just follow the river downstream on well-made paths to arrive at Pontneddfechan. On most of my previous visits to the village I've had lunch in the Angel Inn, adjacent to the gate leading to the waterfalls. But on Saturday the place was packed, and I know their last orders for food are at 2.30. I had a couple of minutes to spare, and a board inside the door announced an hour and a half wait for meals. Instead I headed to the Old White Horse Inn, just across the river. I must say that it's going to be my regular port of call from now on. I found the staff friendlier and more welcoming than the other pub's, and the menu was about on a par. I had lunch there on Saturday, and again on Wednesday. If our sponsored walk does take us to Pontneddfechan, I'm going to suggest to the others that we make the Old White Horse our penultimate destination.

I say penultimate, because I still had to walk the kilometre or so to Pont Walby, at the bottom of the Glynneath Bank, to catch the bus back to Aberdare. But that's a small price to pay for a fourteen-kilometre walk through stunning scenery. If we can raise some cash for Anthony Nolan by retracing my journey in September, then it's definitely worth making the effort. It's an excellent walk through interesting, varied and challenging terrain and with photo opportunities galore. As John Major used to say, I commend it to the house!