A Found Poem

In which The Author digs out an old magazine

Back in September, I signed up for a Creative Writing course. Again …

It was a random sort of Monday, really. Chazz and I had been for lunch, and she'd commented that she needed a new dictionary. So we strolled over to The Works, because I knew they'd have the 'Back to school' offers in place. While we were in there, I bumped into David and Andrea from New Horizons. I'd met them shortly before, when I sat in on a taster session for Psychology and Criminology. Unfortunately I wasn't able to sign up for the full course because it took place at an inconvenient time (and venue). But they asked us if we'd be interested in the Creative Writing course, which was starting that very afternoon. I twisted Chazz's arm by telling her that she might get a song out of it (at least), and the two of us strolled around the block in time for the kick-off.

It turned out that I already knew Steve, the tutor. He used to teach a group in Aberdare Library, and also takes the guitar classes that happen there in the evenings. We'd chatted a couple of times, so it was nice to know I wasn't going in cold.

Anyway, I've put in a few pieces of work already, some of which I'm quite pleased with, and one is taking shape into a longer piece which might become an Actual Completed Project. (Don't stake your life on it, though.)

However, I don't like poetry.

I didn't enjoy studying poetry at school; I don't enjoy reading it, listening to it (with a very few contemporary exceptions such as Ian McMillan and Roger McGough), or writing it. My heart sinks whenever Steve says the word 'poetry'. So when he asked us a week last Monday to write a 'found poem', I realised I could do it without too much need for heavy lifting.

A 'found poem', in essence, relies on taking pieces of existing text and rearranging them into a new form. Now, I knew that with over two thousand books and many old magazines at home, I could probably find something interesting to work with. On Sunday, having finished a copy-edit and with Storm Ciara raging in the background, I pulled out an old copy of the London listings magazine Time Out and got to work.

This particular edition was dated 1–8 March 1995, so it's a whisker short of 25 years old. (If only we'd waited a couple of weeks, I could have taken it to class and we could have had some birthday cake.) I wasn't in London at the time, needless to say. I bought it purely because the cover photo was a head shot of the actress Jennifer Jason Leigh wearing a stunning studded collar.

If only I had been in London that week: Kevin Ayers was playing a rare gig that week; so were his fellow Soft Machine alumnus John Etheridge (a free Sunday lunchtime affair), Kevin's former musical collaborator Lol Coxhill, and a young sax player named Theo Travis, who (along with Mr Etheridge) is in the current Soft Machine line-up, when he's not moonlighting with Andy Tillison's band the Tangent.
I was in Aberdare when all this musical activity was going on. Go figure …

Anyway, I'd already decided to adopt the cut-up approach pioneered by William S. Burroungs and Brion Gysin – not literally, because I hate defacing books or magazines. Instead, I flicked through the pages and typed out the odd string of text that caught my eye. There was no structure to begin with; all I wanted were some interesting phrases or lines of text that could be stitched together in a new sequence. The more I read, the more I found. And, after a few hours messing around with the word processor, I came up with twenty stanzas.

In the spirit of 'found poetry', I need to acknowledge my sources, of course. All the text can be found in that particular edition of Time Out, so I won't credit all the people involved. (When I say 'all the text', some of it is so well hidden I couldn't find it again when I came to scan the sections in question on Sunday evening. But I swear to Goddess it was all there on Sunday afternoon.) There's a sidebar on page 3 of the print copy which lists all the contributors.

I've preserved much of the capitalisation and most of the punctuation from the original texts. I've added one or two line breaks and removed a few others. Some of the stanzas are more ridiculous than others; none of them make any real sense. But I think it's an amusing exercise, and it got a few chuckles when I read it out in class on Monday afternoon. Here goes …

'Plastic and TV are our natural world'

or

The next eight days in full

Until 5 March a spectacular full-scale replica of
Oscar Wilde's London
Situated in a herb garret in the roof of St Thomas' church.

So, the Brits finally hit
Men with animal skulls
'I mean, has she got a face?'
Ever been a perpetrator …?

Never mind politics
in this portrait of life in a north Wales village at the
Grace Theatre at the Latchmere pub
Roy Smiles' shoestring musical spoof,
rather than being political statements,
tempts you with a promise to make it all better.

Those who received a copy of
the first season of Danger Man
Wish I hadn't …

A famous de Kooning aphorism:
Why have so many people had a charisma bypass?

London't acute shortage of
A chic Italian restaurant
Serious without being earnest
Defies easy definition.

The thing about the best road movies
If in doubt, add a serial killer.
Preview tapes were unavailable.

Controversial, we know, but
Philosopher, wit, fearless experimentalist and oddball
Pierre Boulez has marked this century both with
This bawdy, modern-day version of 'Cinderella'
and with a taut, swinging delivery.

PARACHUTING, SKYDIVING, BUNGEE
JUMPING, FLYING, GLIDING, HELICOPTERS
Denotes activity or entertainment particularly
suitable for under-fives.

Are you violent? Do you want to stop
Entering the gallery, you'd be forgiven for
Photographing naked people in city streets;
'Flesh is the reason oil painting was invented.'

The Courtauld has a splendid permanant
collection of old masters such as Rubens and
Beveridge, Watson & Crick, and Hancock.

Pentangle founder-member Jansch, one of the finest
exponents of the ornate finger-picking style he
helped popularise in the 60s
When Starr Faithfull's body was
Pronounced a delight by our
Young Gay and Lesbian Writing Workshop

Excellent and always playful,
Two physically identical girls, living in Poland
In this rich, evocative feast of puppetry and
board-game action hosted by Steve, Figs and Mike
on the main floor. Or you can revive the black leather
girl traumatised by childhood rape.

The songs themselves proffer a mildly
affectionate and very funny odyssey through
Getting Away with Murder.

The German audience and critics were
absolutely clear about it: the only film
that deserved to win Berlin's top prize
– the Golden Bear – was Wayne Wang's
Starsky and Hutch

Waxworks of the famous and infamous, now with
Ming Ming, also Nile crocodiles, rare Asiatic lions
and cubs and a large aquarium with sharks and
former Italian leader with a
child's toy arrow attached by its sucker
to his nose

For dirty, fuck-faces and elemental punk,
Exceptionally adventurous female
Jennifer Jason Leigh's filmography reads like
The best of American modernist art.

Lovely, lithe female graduate, 40
years experience as a clairvoyant, proven
slighly scatty, into real ale and good living,
bit scruffy, veggie, lefty, daunted by new capital
surroundings, looking for woman with or without
ANY NATIONALITY for long-term friendship.

Following last night's orgy of marijuana.
In the best surrealist tradition, Buñuel
involves shifting disembodied brains from
a compendium of favourite elements
and the same two old stalwarts as before.

Beirut bombshell
Abbot still a Virgin
Game for a group blind date?
Bad sex
Love and Bullets
Wee-wee in the wind
Reefer Madness
All slap and no tickle
AIDS memoirs
Next Time I'll Kill You

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 …?

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.

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.

A Quick Sitrep

In which The Author does some calculations

At long last we've sorted out the money from the sponsored walk in aid of Anthony Nolan, which five of us did at the end of September.

You won't be surprised to learn that there was a slight miscalculation. What will surprise you is that we actually miscounted the number of people who took part. (I'm not counting Betty Boop, the mini whippet, who very sensibly baled out before the assault on Cefnpennar Road.)

How can that have happened? I hear you ask. After all, I've got the photographic evidence. There were definitely five of us at the start of the walk (Penderyn, at just after 9.00), at roughly the halfway point (the Ynyscynon Inn, Cwmbach, just after midday), and at the end (the Navigation Hotel, Abercynon, just after 5.00 p.m.). In case you missed them the first time, here they are again:

At the starting point: me, Rhian, Paul, Liam, Kate and the mini whippet

Lunchtime at the Ynyscynon Inn

At the finish line

The miscalculation only came to light about six weeks ago, when Kate realised that she'd fallen pregnant just before the walk took place. Technically speaking, there were six of us (plus a mini whippet) on the day. Naturally she and Gavin are over the moon, but it means Kate's unlikely to be taking part in next year's event. If you'd like to take her place, we'd be glad to have you on board.

Anyway, nearly all the money is in, so I thought I'd give you a quick update. The total we raised the old-school way, using pen and paper, came to an impressive £433. The total via our Just Giving page was £229.61. The odd figures are down to the exchange rate between sterling and the Canadian dollar, which came from an 'anonymous' donor. (But I know who he is.) That makes our grand total £662.61. Not bad going, is it?

That was the most exhausting part of over four years of fundraising for Anthony Nolan.

The most stressful part, undoubtedly, was organising the gig in Jacs. I was starting to tear my hair out when Cripplecreek announced that half the band were double-booked with outside projects. I need to thank my good friend Mitch for saving the day. He was able to call in some favours from his wide network of musical contacts to make the line-up varied and interesting. Meanwhile, I was able to call in a favour from a couple of well-known authors I virtually while I was working on their manuscript this time last year. Rob Grant and Andrew Marshall very generously donated a signed copy of their crazy SF romp The Quanderhorn Xperimentations as a raffle prize. The total we raised from the raffle and donations on the night came to £142. Mitch and I are going to sit down in January and start putting a line-up together for the 2019 gig. Will my nerves hold up? Watch this space …

That leaves the collection boxes, which are ticking over nicely for the most part. I had to retrieve the one from the Brunel Arms in Pontyclun a few weeks ago. The new landlady has decided she'd rather concentrate on a local charity, so she isn't doing bar collections any more. Still, in the time it's been there it's managed to reap an impressive £210.35. Paul and Gavin kindly let me relocate it to the function room in Jacs, which is increasingly busy with private parties. There's a rave party there on New Year's Day, so that might give it a boost as well. The rest are doing nicely, but the runaway leader is still in the Glosters. In fairness, it's been in place longer than any of the others, but even so it seems to be much more productive than the others. (It's also responsible for a fair number of the foreign coins in my collection.) I paid it in last Friday, as it probably wouldn't have lasted through the Xmas and New Year shutdown without filling to bursting point. After finally getting rid of the odd pennies on the spreadsheet (and the certificate) which had been annoying me for months, I can announce that the regular customers and casual drinkers have raised a fantastic £565 for the charity.

I've just been updating my spreadsheet to take account of these three separate strands of fundraising activity. I've checked the totals twice, and I need to share the grand total with you.

£2,056.56.

I can't quite believe it myself. It means that the good people of South Wales (and a few from further afield) who've got behind our efforts have raised enough money to put a further fifty-one people on the UK Tissue Register. That's fifty-one potential lifesavers.

I know I tend to be on a bit of a downward trajectory at this time of year, but that's really boosted my mood today. So huge thanks to everyone who's chucked some odd change into a collection box, or bought a ticket for the raffle, or came to our gig, or sponsored our mini-marathon in September. I wish I could give you a hug and say thanks in person. I guess this will have to do as an alternative.

A Grant-aided Trip to Swansea

In which The Author meets a proper author

Back in the summer of 2015, I was coming home from a hospital appointment and reading Ben Aaronovitch's latest novel, Foxglove Summer, on the bus.

Actually, I've jumped the gun slightly. Let me start again ...

In about 2013, I was browsing in The Works in Aberdare when I found a book in the history section called Rivers of London. Thinking it was going to be about the actual rivers – the Fleet, Tyburn, Westbourne, and so forth – that lie beneath the streets of the modern city, I picked it up and started reading the jacket.

As soon as I saw the Gollancz colophon (that's a posh word for a publisher's logo, in case you're wondering) I knew the book was in the wrong place. Gollancz has long been regarded as one of the leading UK publishers of science fiction and fantasy. This was turning into a promising discovery.

It turned out to be a contemporary crime novel about a young Metropolitan Police constable named Peter Grant. He's out on patrol in Covent Garden one weekend and discovers a headless corpse in the portico of St Paul's Church. The body is very recent. And the only eyewitness to the brutal murder has been dead for two hundred years. That leads Peter to a secret department of the Metropolitan Police who investigate supernatural and paranormal happenings.

That was enough to spark my interest. I took it to the counter and mentioned to Stacey that it had been misplaced. She laughed, and we compared notes on the 'frequent flyers' you come across when you work in a bookshop. Then Stacey told me that it was in their offer, along with the next two books in the series (Moon Over Soho and Whispers Underground).

I bought all three and proceeded to enjoy them thoroughly over the next few weeks. It took me a while to track down the fourth one, though. Eventually Neil R. bought me Broken Homes as a Xmas present. He knew I was a big fan of the books and I couldn't afford to go hunting it down myself. By now I was using Twitter, and occasionally put a message up saying how much I'd enjoyed reading a particular book. One of the authors I was following was Ben Aaronovitch, needless to say. I always liked reading his day word count, his queries aimed at his small army of Tech Support experts, and his random thoughts on everyday life.

That brings us to the summer of 2015, and my hospital appointment. On the way there I called into Waterstones in Putney and bought Foxglove Summer to read in the waiting room. It had only come out in paperback a week or so earlier, and I made a beeline for Waterstones as soon as I arrived in the vicinity of the hospital.

By then I'd signed up for the Gollancz newsletter, which gives subscribers advance warning of new publications. I'd also looked at the Gollancz website, to see if they ever wanted proofreaders. Virtually the first thing it said was that they 'currently have all the freelance help they need'.

It therefore came as something of a surprise to find a number of production errors in a finished book. I was about halfway through it when I arrived home, and it was like reading one of the uncorrected bound proofs which the trade reps would drop off in the shop. (By chance, one of the reps who generously kept me supplied with practice material was Graham Ireland from Orion.) Some were very minor things – missing punctuation, simple typos like from instead of form, that sort of thing – but some were more like the sort of thing that shouldn't really have made it to proof stage. One officer was promoted from Detective Constable to Detective Sergeant in just a few pages. The spelling of one character's name changed from time to time. Another character's surname changed without explanation.

Pretty much the first thing I did when I got to the library the following day was log into Twitter. I tweeted that I was thoroughly enjoying Foxglove Summer, but added that Orion (Gollancz's parent company) really didn't have all the freelance proofreading help they needed.

About quarter of an hour later I had a notification that someone had replied to my post. I checked, and found a message from someone named Gillian Redfearn. She asked if I was reading the hardback, and added that they'd had the text 'redone since for obvious reasons'.

I didn't know who Ms Redfearn was, but a quick click revealed that she was Deputy Publishing Director at Orion.

Now here was an interesting situation. Should I reply in earnest? Or should I just laugh it off?

I decided to go for Plan A. I replied that it was a paperback, bought the previous day. A short period of time elapsed before Ms Redfearn responded. She invited me ('in that case', as she said) to send in anything I found.

Now, imagine my dilemma. I hadn't done any paper proofreading since leaving university, and I was a bit rusty on the BS symbols. Also, I was reluctant to mark up a brand new paperback and post it back to London without knowing when I'd be able to get my hands on a replacement copy. In the event I decided to go old-school on the book. Luckily for me the weather was glorious that weekend. I took my trusty Chambers Dictionary, my notebook, a couple of pens, a ruler, and Foxglove Summer itself, to Aberdare Park on the Saturday morning. I found a fairly quiet spot to sit in the sunshine and started working my way through the text, line by line, noting anything that seemed not to ring true. I even found myself googling a real church in Herefordshire, to see whether it has a tower or a spire.

But I enjoy doing that sort of thing. It wasn't work, it was a pleasant way to spend a weekend without spending any money. I spent two full days beside the lake, reading the book for the second time, but in microscopic detail. Back at home, I typed up my findings and wrote a nice covering letter explaining a bit about my background. I put everything in the post and sat back to see what transpired.

It was the start of the summer holidays. Probably not the best time to expect a rapid response to a job application, never mind a cheeky 'side door' approach to a large company. Consequently a few weeks went by until an email pinged into my inbox from a chap named Craig Leyenaar. Headed Foxglove Summer - Proofreader, this is what it said:

Dear Steve, Gillian Redfearn passed your notes on Foxglove Summer to me. The close reading was impressive and you caught many errors that we will be correcting. Thanks for that. We are happy to consider this your 'proofreading test', but before we are able to pass on any jobs could you give us some more details? Are you happy to do both proofreading and copy-editing on screen? How long did it take you to proofread Foxglove Summer? What is your hourly rate? After we've received this information and we can all agree on terms we'll put together a contract and move on from there.

Well, that was the foot in the door I'd been hoping for. I sent Craig the extra bits and pieces, and I was away. Sort of …

It didn't take long until my first assignment arrived in the post. It was the final part of a trilogy by Gavin G. Smith: a very strange SF novel called The Beauty of Destruction. Craig also sent me PDFs of the first two books, so I could check for any continuity errors that might have sneaked into the mix. And I'm not lying when I say that this huge pile of paper sat on my desk for two whole days while I pondered what to do next.

You see, from just reading the first few chapters I could see that I had an uphill struggle ahead of me. As well as a great many typos, missing punctuation, dubious hyphenation (especially of Welsh words), and the usual typesetting glitches I was used to from the bound proofs, there were numerous inconsistent spellings, changes of name, incorrect spellings of real places, real companies and so forth … In short, it was a bloody mess. I was afraid to touch it without seeking some advice first. If I fucked it up, I'd never hear from Orion again and I'd be back to square one.

I emailed Rob H., an old friend who's been proofreading for close to twenty years. His advice was simple, practical and sensible – just what I needed to hear, in fact. He reminded me that I was being paid to find mistakes in the text. That's exactly what I should do. Mark everything up, he said, and send it back. He added that he'd come across books where the copy-editor seemed to have 'fallen asleep at the wheel', and pointed out that that's why publishers use proofreaders as the final line of defence. So that's exactly what I did.

In the event I typed out about eighty separate queries, as well as correcting factual errors like the names of various armaments manufacturers. (I was almost expecting to find the library on lockdown, with snipers on the roof of the Jokecentre, because Echelon had picked up my google searches and decided that a major terrorist cell was based in Aberdare.) I marked up the proof with so much red ink that it looked like a crime scene, posted it back to Orion, and emailed all my paperwork to Craig. The die was cast.

I was prepared for an email thanking me for my work on The Beauty of Destruction and paying me off, never to darken Orion's door again. Instead, once he'd had chance to go through everything, I had a very positive email from Craig. This sentence in particular gave me a great boost: 'After going through it, I think I'd be happy to send you some copy-editing work as well as proof reading.'

Craig was as good as his word, fair play. The next assignment I had from Gollancz was the typescript of Rig by Jon Wallace, for copy-edit. This was a bit of a curveball, because that was also the final part of a trilogy. That meant that I was slightly confined by stylistic choices made by the previous copy-editor. (In fact I was rather surprised that the three books weren't assigned to the same person.) It was a bit of a learning curve, because I had to use features of LibreOffice I hadn't come across before. But it's all good grist to the mill. I enjoy new challenges, and I've always enjoyed researching things in books and via the Internet. It seemed as though I'd finally landed the job Rowland and my other friends had told me I should have been doing years earlier.

My reputation for thoroughness and attention to detail was starting to pay off. In fairly short order Craig asked me to work on the 'definitive' texts of William Gibson's 'Sprawl' novels, an anthology of his short stories, and the 'authors' preferred text' of Good Omens by the late Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. These are far from being newcomers to the scene, after all. To have names like those on my CV was quite an achievement, considering that I'd been officially freelance for only six months or so.

It wasn't long until my name started to circulate within Orion. In my first departure from Science Fiction, Craig's colleague Tom Monson asked me if I fancied copy-editing a historical novel by Christian Cameron. Set during the fag-end of the Peloponnesian War, Rage of Ares was the final instalment of the Long War saga. I think I must have been off school ill for the morning we covered Ancient Greece, because I knew bugger all about the period. Furthermore, my grasp of Classical Greek is limited to a few epigrams from Homer I've picked up from crosswords over the years. But I did my best with the typescript, flagging up marginal queries and compiling a fuller list of Notes and Queries (something that soon became my signature). I must have done an okay job, because Christian was very kind in addressing some of my more obvious questions. It didn't take long before one of Tom's colleagues (another Craig) offered me another of Christian's books – this time, set during the Hundred Years War.

This was a bizarre coincidence. The day I finished working on Rage of Ares and emailed it to Orion, I was in London. (See The Oyster is Your World.) I somehow found myself at the Priory of St John of Jerusalem, in Clerkenwell. I took a few photos, wrote a blog about my discoveries in town, and thought no more of it. When The Green Count arrived, I was amazed to find that Sir William Gold, the protagonist of the series, was raised at the Priory of St John of Jerusalem. (This was the original priory, of course, sacked during the Peasants' Revolt.) I sent the link to Christian via Twitter, and he was kind enough to leave a comment on my blog.

Since then I've worked on another four of Christian's books (two historical fiction, two fantasy), and we've pencilled in a couple of pints when he's in the UK next year. (He's based in Toronto.) We work via Twitter and/or email to iron out any problems in the text, and always have fun discussing obscure points of fictional (but real-ish) grammar. He's been generous enough to mention me in the acknowledgments to his books, and to endorse me online. It's going to be great to sit down and talk to him face to face, rather than via cyberspace.

Last October I had an email from an unfamiliar name, sent from a publisher called Bonnier Zaffre. They had a new crime novel for proofreading, and apparently someone in the office had suggested that I was the man for the job. It turned out that one of Orion's editors had moved to a different company and taken her contacts book with her. I knew then that I was moving in the right circles. Since then I've done a number of jobs for them, most recently proofreading the new novels by Lynda La Plante and Wilbur Smith. Yes – the Wilbur Smith.

All of which brings us back to Ben Aaronovitch. At the start of April, Craig emailed me out of the blue:

And so we come full circle . . . the new Ben Aaronovitch is coming up for copy-edit in a fortnight. Would you be available to do it?

Needless to say, I said yes.

It was Lies Sleeping, the latest instalment in the adventures of Peter Grant. I had to refer back to my well-thumbed copies of the earlier books while I was working on the typescript. Ben and I got to discuss some points via Twitter when I sent the edited typescript back, and I think we got each other's sense of humour. And then came the best news of all. A couple of months ago Gollancz announced that Ben would be touring the country, giving talks and signing Lies Sleeping. Best of all, he was coming to Cardiff and Swansea.

Wales tends to get overlooked when it comes to author signings. If they get as far as Cardiff we can count ourselves lucky. Swansea is pretty much terra incognita for mainstream UK publishers. Unfortunately, it's also pretty much inaccessible from Aberdare by public transport.

Cardiff was a more realistic prospect – a Thursday lunchtime signing in an independent shop in the Bay – but by the time Rhian and I got round to booking the tickets, it was sold out. (Rhian's also a big fan of the books, so I made sure she had the day off before proceeding any further.) I commented on Twitter, saying how disappointed we were to have missed out. Luckily Craig spotted it, and said that he could put us on the guest list if needs be.

It turned out that social media came to the rescue again. My old friend John works in the centre of Swansea, and offered us a lift there and back again after the event. I told Craig that we'd be heading for Swansea instead, and he said he thought it would be a better event anyway. Instead of just a signing, Ben would be giving a talk as well. We booked our tickets straight away.

Rhian, Liam (a big fan of Doctor Who, for which Ben wrote a couple of scripts back in the Classic era), and I set off in John's car at 8.00 on a hazy Thursday morning two weeks ago, and were in town just after 9.00. We decided to have breakfast in Thereisnospoon (as good as anywhere), and then jumped on a bus to Limeslade. We had the day to ourselves, and for £4.50 we could kill a couple of hours and get some sea air. We got to the beach at high tide, by which time the clouds had burned off and the sun was well and truly out. We walked the cliff path to Langland Bay, stopped off in Langland's Brasserie (a couple of converted beach huts) for second breakfast, and then walked to Caswell village to get the bus back into town.

We killed some more time at the Waterfront Museum, which wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped it might be, then made our way to the No Sign Bar for something to eat. It's not far from there to Waterstones, and we had time to browse before the event started. I picked up The Gradual, a 2016 novel by Christopher Priest that sneaked into the bookshops while my back was turned. (I finished it on the way back from London on Tuesday, and very good it is too.) Obviously I needed to buy Lies Sleeping. And I needed a new copy of Rivers of London, the first book in the sequence, because mine is currently circulating among the bar staff in Thereisnospoon in Aberdare. I had a nice chat with the Waterstones people while I was updating my loyalty card. I had the rest of Ben's backlist in my bag, after checking with the management that he'd be happy to sign those as well. John joined us when he finished work, and we all headed to the top of the building for the event itself.

The talk was entertaining, informative, and light-hearted. Ben has a rather warped sense of humour (which comes across in his books), and he's very down to earth about his writing, his family, and his writing process. It was good to be with so many people who clearly love the books as much as I do. He was even kind enough to ask if his copy-editor was there. We had a bit of banter about publisher's house style, public transport in Wales (Ben was travelling by train), and assorted odds and ends.

We queued for the signing (towards the end of the queue, because I had half a dozen books as well as Lies Sleeping) and we had a chat with the PR lady from Gollancz while we were waiting. (I can't remember her name, alas, but she was very pleasant.) It was nice to know that we were expected, as she called us 'the Aberdare contingent' when she came over to talk to us. Ben and I had a good chat while he signed my books, and I explained how the paperback of Foxglove Summer had opened the door to what I'm doing now. It was really lovely to tie everything up in a big loop, face to face with the author himself.

Afterwards the PR lady told me that Christian Cameron will be on the Gollancz Authors events list next year. (I knew that already from the horse's mouth, so to speak.) It seems that my name is quite well known in the offices. I asked her to pass on my thanks to Craig, for arranging for us to come to the event. I also emailed him the following day to tell him how the day had panned out and thanking him for having faith in me back in the summer of 2015.

John dropped us off in Aberdare and Rhian and I repaired to Jacs for a pint. It was only then that I realised Ben had given me a namecheck in Lies Sleeping, for my 'meticulous' copy-editing. That's as big a vote of confidence that I could have hoped for. All in all it's been a long, strange trip, and meeting the man who indirectly started the whole thing off was the perfect way to end a very busy, educational, entertaining and thoroughly enjoyable year of freelance work.