I’ve said it before. I always get lost when I try to drive through Neath on my own. Don’t know what it is. There’s nothing special about Neath. Just one of those towns you come across almost anywhere. Except, take one wrong turn and you’re off into an oddly unnerving Tardis-town on a road you can’t recall, driving to places you’ve never seen.
The only compensation is that, sooner or later, if you keep going in more or less a straight line, you’ll end up on the road to Carmarthen, or Pontardawe, or Swansea, and those are places from which I can happily navigate home.
Today it was Swansea.
Hey ho. I’d dropped Graham off at the train station–he’s off to Somerset for the weekend–and had intended to drop in at our local friendly supermarket for easy and healthy eatables to see me through the first couple of days going solo.
No problem. Swansea is fine, and the Sainsbury’s supermarket is world class. I had lunch, then plunged into the aisles to grab goodies. Home, sucking peppermints, and then it was:
“Hello, Dolly! Dja miss me?”
Nothing.
“I said Hello, Dolly. You could at least acknowledge my existence.”
Nothing.
“I shall have to come and prod you.”
Nothing.
So she got her prod, and rolled over to face me, all fluffy summer fur, spit, and multi-dimensionally clawed spite.
“That’s better. It’s nice to be noticed.”
We soon made up, though, and once I’d had a coffee to calm my road nerves, we snuggled up for a good long siesta.
I wonder what it really is about me and Neath?
