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.