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.

Friends Without Benefits

In which The Author makes a late new year's resolution

A few days before Xmas, Rhian, Steff and I were in Thereisnospoon when the subject – for some unknown reason – turned to the fact that I've been de facto single since March 2001. Rhian, of course, was there when the whole Oz Girl situation imploded a few months later (see From a Land Down Under). Steff was't.

Since then, my 'romantic life' (*snort*) has consisted of a brief unconsummated dalliance with Jenny, unrequitable one-way love affairs with a Dippy Bint and a Nigerian Princess, two 'dates' with a born-again God-botherer and drug casualty, an online relationship with a Russian chick who may or may not have been Russian (or a chick) at all, a couple of drunken flirtations with a beautiful and kinky single mother, and a few snogs with a woman my age for whom the phrase 'as mad as a box of frogs' seems sadly inadequate. I'm not necessarily listing them in the right order …

Steff wondered why I hadn't invested more into furthering any of these potential relationships. I told her I really didn't have the time or energy to spare.

The way I look at it, it's rather like (not) learning to drive.

Learning to drive takes ages, costs a small fortune, and – unless you're in a well-paid job or drive a company car – simply adds another financial black hole to your personal universe. Into that bottomless pit of tax, MOT, running costs, insurance, repair bills, parking charges, and so forth, you watch every single spare penny of your income drain away just as surely as Manic Monday follows Silly Sunday.

Even if you can afford to run a vehicle, your social life suffers; you can't have a pint whenever the mood takes you, because that precious licence depends on your continued sobriety. As well as being the designated driver on days out, you become the unofficial taxi service for family and friends, constantly on call for hospital appointments and so forth.

I didn't go any further down that road after failing my driving test in 1983. Sometimes – about once a decade – I wish I had. The Nigerian Princess said she'd love to see the Gower Peninsula, with its spectacular beaches, quaint buildings and mysterious ruined castles, before she went home.

I replied, 'I'd love to take you there, babe. But on public transport, by the time we got there it would be time to come back again.'

Which leads neatly to my next point. Not learning to drive forces you into the grip of private companies like Arriva Trains Fails Wales, Stagecoach and First Group, or transport authorities such as TfL. You're constrained to go wherever they go, and forced to rely on the oldest form of transport known to our species if you want to go further afield. If you need to travel off the beaten track, or at short notice, or outside the normal operating hours, you are (to borrow a technical term from the urban planning industry) fucked to buggery and back.

But you learn to live with it. My other blog Is Your Journey Really Necessary? came about because of the frustrations of living in a place where, as far as the Powers That Be are concerned, nothing whatsoever happens after 6.00 p.m. or at weekends. Yes, it's annoying when there's something happening in Cardiff – which you simply can't get home from. It's even more infuriating when there's something happening in Swansea – which you simply can't get to in the first place.

After a couple of decades, you begin to realise why most people in Aberdare perceive a universe that's bounded by the corner shop, the pub, the local playing field, the betting shop and the takeaway. You try telling them that twenty miles away there are interesting shops, and a whole range of pubs and clubs and restaurants, and cinemas and shows and gigs and plays and museums and galleries and talks and meetings and all manner of events going on seven nights a week, pretty much the whole year … And after a few minutes, you realise that they're about to phone the police to report an escapee from a locked psychiatric ward. This world you're describing is as alien and unfamiliar as any SF scenario dreamt up by the masters of the genre. They can't even begin to imagine living in that world.

In essence, that's pretty much what I've done with regards to 'matters of the heart' over the past sixteen years or so. I've cut myself off from that world, and no longer take any interest when other people talk about their visits there. When I see my friends pair off, settle down, and start a family, naturally I'm pleased for them. Who wouldn't be? For Goddess's sake, we need some genetic variation in the system simply to fight a rearguard action against the fuckwits.

But I really can't visualise myself in that situation. If it was going to happen at all, it would have happened twenty years ago. It didn't. It's a virtual simulation of a world that simply isn't real for me.

Which puts me in an interesting position, as Steff found out when she pressed me on the subject that evening.

'Not even a one night stand?'

'No.'

'Fuck buddies?'

'No.'

'Friends with benefits?'

'No – plenty of friends on benefits, but that's as far as it goes.'

I only found out the meaning of the term 'friends with benefits' a few years ago. I'd probably overheard it in conversation, but – as with Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto, Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, and so forth – I'd assumed it was some sort of yoof cult thing. Maybe a weird hybrid of a popular US sitcom starring Jennifer Aniston and a Channel 4 exposé of dole fiddlers. How the fuck was I to know it was an actual thing?

But it turned out to be an actual thing.

As far as I can tell, friends with benefits are people of the opposite sex (usually) who occasionally exchange bodily fluids, but with no commitment to a proper relationship and no intention to embark on one. I don't think I know any people who are in that situation. I expect if I paid more attention to the ongoing soap opera Life in Aberdare, I'd find a few people sitting not too far away from where I am now who fall into that category.

But I'm not interested in other people's lives. I'm not in a position to offer a shoulder to cry on when it comes to fucked-up sex lives. Whenever Rhian and Steff have an argument, I'm the one they turn to for advice. Goddess alone knows why. It's hardly my area of expertise. I can help people out with their English grammar and spelling, but why bother asking me about anything else? It's a bit like consulting King Herod for childcare tips.

Fuck buddies are even more mysterious than friends with benefits. I don't even know whether fuck buddies are supposed to be friends, or whether their sexual encounters are as transient as the mating of foxes along the banks of the river. The whole fuck buddy phenomenon seems to be another manifestation of the sex-obsessed culture we've built for children over three decades of music videos, easy access to online pornography (in spite of what the ISPs say), the wide availability of fairly effective contraception (not that everyone uses it), and the general I Want It All And I Want It Now mentality we've been instilling in society since I was a teenager.

I know a number of people who fall into this category whenever they're with the opposite sex. (Or maybe not even the opposite sex – this is Aberdare, remember, where most young people seem content to fuck pretty much anyone.) In fact, I think I was out with one of them on Thursday night.

Oh yes, my friend Barry Normal's summary of The Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 turned out to be amazingly accurate – especially the last bit.

The text I'd been expecting (from a number not in my contacts list) arrived at about 2.30, asking me if I fancied going to the Lighthouse in the evening. In the event, Chazza arrived at Thereisnospoon only about half an hour late. We had a bite to eat, chatted about the latest development in her romantic roller-coaster ride, and then went over the road in time for karaoke.

Phillip was there, naturally, but Clare was at home nursing a cold. The place filled up slowly before Tara arrived to set up her gear, but then the snow started. At first it didn't look as if it would come to much, but by about 9.30 p.m. it was piling down. Tara lives in Tonyrefail, two mountains away. Deb the barbint lives in Maerdy, only one mountain away, but still impossible to get to if the roads are closed. It looked as if the evening was going to be cut off in its prime.

Before we baled out, Chazza had made a point of showing off her latest new phone – not the one she'd had for Xmas, apparently, but a more recent acquisition again – to everyone in the pub. A gang of lads in their twenties had come in – trendy haircuts, beards, beauty products, off-the-shelf 'designer' clothes, cutting-edge gadgets – and Chazza had latched on to them straight away. After taking selfies with them all, she spilled half a pint of beer and decided she wanted to move on to the Bush.

I wasn't keen on the idea from the outset. As I've said previously, there's too much testosterone and way too much white powder in the place for my tastes. But we haven't sung together for ages, so I agreed to call in for just the one. We were in Commercial Street when Chazza spotted two youngsters she knows, one male and one female, ducking into a doorway out of the snow. From what I gathered from the brief conversation, the girl had been involved in a fight in the Bush – I wasn't really listening – and the police were going to get involved and someone's father was coming up to sort things out (know what I mean?) and there was a restraining order in the mix somewhere …

I had a brief flashback to the drug-addled lowlife I met in Aberdare Library five years or so ago (see Not Born Beautiful), so I made my excuses and left. I told Chazza I was going to the Prince for a pint, and that I might see her later on. She started arguing, but I told her I was too old to get involved in an Excerpt From a Post-Teenage Soap Opera.

I left them to it and finished the night in the Prince. It was quiet, unsurprisingly, and Chazza and I had a brief argument online about the way the night had panned out yet again before my battery died. At one point she asked me how she was expected to get home if the snow kept falling.

I replied, 'Same way I am – walking.'

When the snow falls, there are precious few taxis on the road. When two people are heading in opposite directions, trying to share one is a waste of time.

Then the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 vanished once again. I thought I saw her walking past the window a little while later, but if it was her she didn't call in. Since then, nothing. As usual. Did she go home on her own? Who knows? I certainly did.

Just the day before, I'd been crashed out of bed by Clare, who was trying to smash my front door down at 7.27 a.m. A couple of days ago she'd told Gareth that it was over between them. Even though they'd never been 'a couple' (according to her, anyway), he was fine as a fuck buddy for a little while. Once the novelty wore off, she fell back to Plan A: Good Old Steve. She wasn't feeling particularly well, and she'd had an argument with her family, so she'd left the house at the crack of dawn and landed outside the only place where someone might be awake. I wasn't feeling particularly well-disposed towards her after she'd launched into what sounded like a fucking police raid, but apparently she'd tried ringing me beforehand. My phone doesn't stay on overnight. Now you know why.

After breakfast in Thereisnospoon we caught a train into Cardiff, and went for a walk around the bay to blow the cobwebs away. We crossed the barrage, and I texted Rowland to see if he could recommend a decent pub in Penarth – or, even better, join us for a pint. We walked into Penarth, visited the town's eight (or possibly nine) charity shops, and had a quick catch-up with Rowland before we all caught the bus back to Cardiff. Clare and I went to the cinema, then called into the Rummer for a pint before she decided to head home. I stayed in town for the duration, but I didn't miss a great deal again.

While we were walking around the bay, I wanted a photo of us against a strange alien landscape which the wind and water had carved out of the shoreline. Luckily for us, we met a couple from Tyntetown who were happy to help us out. It was especially breezy on Wednesday, as you can see.

Now, bear in mind that we're just friends. Clare made that perfectly clear a couple of months ago, remember. However, the number of people in Aberdare who think we're seeing each other continues to grow. I don't know how many times since October that Clare and I – or both of us – have been asked if we're an item. People have even started saying things like 'See you, both' when we leave the pub. It's a bit like that running joke in Torchwood: Children of Earth, where Ianto has to tell Jack every time someone sees through the facade and realises they're a couple.

But look at the photo again.

I know she's much younger than me, but most people don't believe how old I really am anyway. Check out the way we're dressed. To all intents and purposes we look as though we're together, don't we? It even looks as though we're holding hands. (We weren't, of course. It was blowing a gale, so Clare kept her hands inside her sleeves.) And – most importantly – neither of us would ever feature in a glamour magazine, never mind a porn shoot.

As I've said before, Clare's an attractive girl, but she certainly isn't the prototype for the Robert Silverberg 'Caliban'-style clones walking around Aberdare every weekend. With her black leggings, black top, black jacket, slightly spiky dyed hair and unusual tastes in music, she's certainly far closer to my type than the rest of the Thereisnospoon/ Rasputin's/ Judges crowd. In fact, before we set off for Cardiff she asked if I could lend her a collar for the day. She didn't put it on until we got to Thereisnospoon in Penarth, but then she wore it quite happily for the rest of the day, and all day on Friday as well. We even found a pair of lace gloves online, which I gave her yesterday as a late Xmas present. When we walked into the Cambrian last night, with Clare going more Goth than usual, everyone assumed that we'd finally bitten the bullet and decided to make it official.

On the way there, we laughed about the number of times we've had to disabuse people of that idea. The last time it happened was in Thereisnospoon on Saturday afternoon. (It still wasn't as funny as a woman in the Lighthouse over Xmas asking me if she was my daughter.) I teased her that maybe we should start saying 'yes' whenever anyone asks us if we're an item. She thought it might be a good idea as well.

Then, of course, we got to the Bonki – where Gareth was DJ'ing – and things changed. Even though she'd said she only wanted to go up there for karaoke, I knew that she was really still hung up on her latest fuck buddy.

In fact, on Thursday night, she'd texted me (when I was in the Prince on my own) to say Gareth was on his way into town.

'Why should I care?' I texted back. 'He's your fuck buddy, not mine.'

A few minutes later she told me he wasn't her fuck buddy any more.

But we still had to haul ass to the fucking Bonki on Friday night, simply so she could sit in the corner with me and smile knowingly at her non-fuck buddy while he tended to the sound system. Then she took a phone call from a 'friend' (with or without benefits, I’m not sure) in Pontypridd, whom she'd met for lunch in the afternoon. She spent about an hour talking to him while I sat there like a spare part at an orgy, and then wondered why I couldn't be bothered to get involved with the karaoke.

We went out for a pint on Saturday afternoon as well, but as soon as we were in a pub with WiFi, she spent the rest of the time on her phone, messaging a string of 'friends' on dating/chat sites. You can probably understand why I'm starting to get a bit pissed off with the entire situation.

Clare's certainly the nearest I've come to meeting a girl who's my type for a number of years. We get on well, we make each other laugh, and we enjoy spending time together. We like the same sort of style, and everyone thinks we would work well together. But – as I said in You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone – I can't possibly compete with the endless parade of tattooed chavs vying for her attention whenever she's connected to the Internet. She's got this idealised picture in her mind of her 'perfect man', and she's not going to be happy until she meets him.

The fact that he's a former rock star who would be about my age now (always assuming he's still alive) doesn't enter into it. Similarly, I could decide to stay single until the remote possibility that Clara from Doctor Who walked into the pub and fell head over heels for me. It's as likely a scenario as Clare's ideal bloke deciding to pop in to the pub for karaoke on a Thursday, after all.

It's slightly different with Chazza, who (in spite of being all loved up) chases anything with an X chromosome when she's pissed. It's sex addiction, pure and simple. I wouldn't dream of giving some random stranger my phone number – much less adding them on Facebook. I don't accept friend requests from people I might know, much less from friends of friends whom I've never met and probably never will.
On the other hand, As far as young people are concerned, simply brushing against someone in a shop doorway is enough to elevate them to instant 'friend' status. I've got about five hundred friends on Facebook, only about half a dozen of whom I've yet to meet in the flesh. Kids have thousands of 'friends' online, and they wonder why they get into scrapes all the time.
(Incidentally, shortly after I'd posted this entry I read this story on the Daily Mirror website: Teenage girl found dead 20 minutes after being reported missing 'had gone to meet man she met online'. Go figure …)

Here's my reading of the situation. Most of the guys these girls – and others – meet online are just looking for another fuck buddy, in the guise of offering true love to a gullible female who's never experienced true love before and who keeps getting short-changed as a result. Then we (i.e. men in general) have to put up with the constant barrage of misandrist memes posted by silly bints who've allowed themselves to get hurt in return for a quick fuck behind Judges at stupid o'clock on a Saturday morning.

In the early hours of that very Saturday morning, I logged into Facebook from the warmth of my bed – with no random bint snoring beside me – and posted the following status:

In an alternative universe not recorded in the Bible, the Garden of Eden scene ended differently. God came to Adam while he was on his deathbed, and said, 'Adam, I created woman from your rib, to be your helpmate and companion, so that the two of you would populate the world. Now you're about to die, and there's still no patter of tiny feet. That didn't go according to plan.'

And Adam replied, 'Lord, you have only yourself to blame. If you hadn't created mobile phones and equipped the garden with free Wifi, I might have had a shot with Eve. Instead, she's spent the last eight hundred years blogging, updating her Facebook status, playing Candy Crush, and posting selfies on Instagram - "Do these fig leaves make my bum look big?" and so forth. I never stood a chance.'

And on Saturday morning I commented on it myself:

Incidentally, Eve's only Facebook friend was this serpent she'd met randomly one day, and she still had a crush on him. She only ever liked Adam as a friend.

When Clare left the Lighthouse just before 6.30 p.m. on Saturday night – going home, apparently – she said, 'See you Monday?'

'Yeah, probably,' I said.

But there's no guarantee I'll see her today.

There's no guarantee I'll even be available to take a message from her. Or from Chazza, for that matter. It's the next stage of Project No More Mr Nice Guy. Progress report to follow …

Strange Little Girl

In which The Author imports some content from his secret blog

About a year or so I was in a pub in Aberdare, chatting to Phillip, a mate of mine who's a regular at every karaoke bash. He's an Elvis tribute act, a fine singer and a very good bloke. Then a young girl named Clare came in, whom I also knew from the scene. She's short, a little bit chunky, rather attractive in a punky/goth sort of way, and about half my age. She was dressed from head to foot in black and sported a nice new spiky hairstyle, as well. The omens were propitious. She joined our little gang and we all chatted for a few minutes before she got the call to the mic. She was tearing a song from Grease 2 a new one when I leaned over to Phillip.

'Your friend's bloody good, mate.'

'My sister,' he replied.

'Your sister?' I said in amazement. I didn't even know he had a sister.

Anyway, when Clare came back over I complimented her on her performance, and we started chatting.

And that was where the whole thing started.

Since then we've sung together fairly regularly; we've been on a few drinking sessions (most recently on Monday); we've been to Cardiff to see a film; we've been to Pontypridd, Treorchy and Merthyr; we're planning a day in Bristol before Xmas, and a little excursion to London in the spring. We've also had a bloody nightmare trying to sort out ID for her, so that she can come to the pubs when we do go further afield. We've spent a fair bit of time together, and chat regularly on Facebook.

And I've found out quite a bit about her. Clare's family is fairly unconventional, to say the least. She's a bright kid, but she didn't have a good time in school. As a result, she suffers with anxiety and depression. Relateable statement, as we say on Facebook. She had children when she was quite young (as did a few friends of mine), but they're in foster care. She still lives with her father and Phillip, but she's got a string of ex-boyfriends – and, being a young person, a couple of ex-girlfriends – all over the Valleys.

[A digression: The most recent romance was less than a month ago. She met this young lad from Blackwood on a chat site, announced their engagement on Facebook a few days later, brought him to Aberdare for karaoke to meet her friends the following Friday, and kicked him into touch on the Sunday afternoon. On the Friday, her brother and I were joking that it would all be over by Xmas. In the event, it was over by Halloween. I mean, come on! Even Britney Spears has had longer relationships than that.]

A couple of months ago, we were chatting on karaoke night when Clare announced that she was moving 'back' to Ebbw Vale. (The home of another ex-boyfriend, naturally.) I said I thought it was a good plan. I know it's on its arse as a town, but my pals maintain a strong music scene. Clare would be right at home there.

When Jocelyn asked me what I wanted to sing, I had the perfect song straight away: 'We Gotta Get Out of This Place' by the Animals. Not only did the subject matter dovetail with our conversation; it also includes the words 'Now, girl, you're so young and pretty' ‐ the most subtle way of throwing her a compliment I could think of.

Anyway, the Ebbw Vale plan seems to have run into the sand for the time being, so she's still on the local scene.

But there's more …

When we were in Cardiff, I took her over to Rebel Rebel. It's a modern head shop run by two gay pals of mine named Rick and Tim. Clare was fancying the studded leather accessories while I chatted to Rick and topped up my phone. I told her that I had a nice collar she could have, which was cheaper than buying one. She bought a little wristband in the meantime. She'll love Camden Market when we get there in the spring.

But there's more …

I've met Clare's father in the past couple of weeks. I'd made an appointment to give blood, and advertised the session on Facebook. Clare persuaded her father to go down as well, and the three of us chatted over squash and biscuits afterwards. You can see why I thought maybe she was just making an excuse to be in the same building as me at the same time.

On Sunday morning, I rang Clare and asked her if she was going to the Remembrance service in Hirwaun. We'd talked about it the day before, but I said I'd check out the weather before I committed myself to walking up. In the event it was dry and bright. I met Clare on the edge of the village, and walked with her to the church and thence to the war memorial, where Phillip's St John Ambulance group were laying a wreath. Then we repaired to the Glancynon for soft drinks before the buses started running, and ended up in the pub.

In the evening we had a singer and guitarist in the pub. We were sitting at the opposite end, and our ex-army mates were in the middle, extremely pissed and rowdy. Before our guest started his set, I went over to chat to him, leaving Clare in the half-pissed hands of the Two Helens. In the meantime, Phillip parked himself at the end of the bar so he could take photos. When I looked back, Clare was talking to Charlie (Charlotte), one of the part-time barbints.

Their father picked them up towards the end of the evening, and Charlie and I ended up chatting by the bar. Charlie knows Clare, and she dropped a very heavy hint that I might have a chance of taking things to the next level. I didn't press her on it, but Charlie seemed to think that Clare was keen on me, too.

Anyway, this was going through my mind when Clare strolled into the library on Monday and asked me if I fancied some lunch.

As I told you last time, chokers are back in fashion in Aberdare, but Clare definitely pushed the envelope by wearing her wide studded collar into town. I was wearing a collar, too, just by coincidence. We were both dressed in black when we went to the pub. She mentioned that we were getting some attention from the other customers. I took a photo of her and posted it on Facebook, adding something like, 'We're sure the guys on the next table think we're on our way to a fetish night.' She thought that was hilarious.

(Talking of Facebook, I posted this lovely meme on her Timeline a couple of weeks ago. It's often quite difficult to get a smile from Clare unless there's food involved. I just wanted to give her another little compliment. I had no idea at the time that her nickname in school was 'Wednesday' – but luckily she saw the funny side. )

From there, we headed over the road for afternoon karaoke (or Performance and Cock-ups, as I call it). Phillip came in after work and the three of us had a good laugh, as always. Karen came in later on, and a splendid time was had by all. When the karaoke wound down, Phillip went to meet his father as arranged.

However, Clare decided that she'd rather join Karen and me for a late drink. We strolled down to the Prince and found a nice spot by the fireplace. While Clare was phoning to arrange a lift for the end of the night, Karen came to the same conclusion that Charlie had the previous evening.

In fact, she went a stage further and told Clare outright that she'd be far better off dating me than she would be hooking up with yet another very young and good-looking no-hoper.

Interesting suggestion, isn't it? Let's look at it in detail.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time I've had a significantly younger significant other. It wouldn't be the first time Clare has had a boyfriend who's years older than her, either. It wouldn't be the first time I've gone out with a girl who isn't conventionally attractive; it's the personalities that do it for me, not the looks. We get on well, we make each other laugh, we enjoy each other's company, and people are used to seeing us together. And I think she'd be sexually adventurous enough to tick my boxes.

But how do I go about broaching the subject directly? After all, if I had a quid for every time a girl 'just liked me as a friend', I'd be a very wealthy man by now.

Answers on a postcard, please …