“What’s on the menu for today?” I asked, looking out glumly at an increasingly damp and miserable-looking day.
“We need to go to the dump.”
“Oh, what a joy.”
It wasn’t so bad, really, and in answer to my curiosity bone we took time to do a little exploration of the nether-regions behind the council dump and running alongside a monstrous viaduct carrying the main road past Briton Ferry and across to Swansea. I’ve not verified my facts but it seems to be ex-industrial land that’s been flattened and made over to provide static facilities to accommodate gypsies and other travelling folk. Rather frightening to find such a place so close to civilisation. We did not stop.
Back home, lunch time, and a failure to agree on the better choice between pasties and sandwiches. I did not fancy making sandwiches, and Graham didn’t fancy buttering the bread to make the job a little easier for me.
“Looks like pasties after all, then,” I said.
“Suppose so.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that I fancied some nice cheese salad sandwiches.”
“Sorry. My back’s not up to counter work today. Told you we should have picked up fish’n'chips on our way back to the house.”
“Grrr.”
