The road system in Swansea is something like visiting a dysfunctional family. Every turn you make is in some awful way mysteriously wrong. Graham said “Turn right.” I turned left.
“Whaddya do that for?”
“Well sometimes when you say ‘right’ you actually mean ‘left’.”
“Oh. Fair enough. Where does this take us, then?”
“I dunno. Some place called Llanffiddlewaddell, I expect.”
“The way you said that sounded almost like Welsh. Where are you going now?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“Well, it feels like the right thing to do.”
We got to a stretch of road that both I and my internal autopilot recognised.
“Where are we going now?”
“Home. I know the way home, and this is it.”
“Good. Shopping in Swansea on a Saturday is a bad idea.”
“You said it, sugar-plum.”
And so we got home, bearing a tray of jewel-bright polyanthus, a lamp-shade deemed suitable for Graham’s mother’s newly decorated bedroom, and a small pack of goodies from the too big for its own good Swansea Morrison’s.
“That was fun,” I said.
“No it wasn’t.”
“Oh well, I’m not going to argue. Tea?”
