AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see blog: The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.

In the previous episode, “In no time at all Land mines were springing down all over the place” -- a description of the Land Mine industry in Cymru.

The Cardiff Grandma Chapter 11
Wolfcastle drove back into the city. Once more on familiar ground after his excursion out to his old friend’s country house. There was something therapeutic about driving in the city late at night. It wasn’t yet late enough for the streets to be empty, the last dregs of drunken revelers were still staggering around looking for a fight, a place to be sick, a fast food joint or a taxi (or a combination of those things). A few late night studiers were also out making use of the 24 hour university library facility. There was some traffic too. As ever, there were waves of taxi’s rushing back into the centre to make one more pick up before calling it a night. The taxis were not alone, ambulances and police cars were dashing to or from the latest ‘incident’ and the ever present soil trucks were also present.

Still, Wolfcastle enjoyed the sense of freedom He was getting used to the hire car now, quite attached in fact. As much as it saddened him it was true to say that people did tend to judge a persons character by outward appearance: the clothes you wore, car your drove, house to lived in (and where it was). Coming back to his old stomping ground again, Wolfcastle had decided that he should try and give a good account of himself. He wasn’t a Lada owner, and he only wore suits for weddings and funerals. He’d been pondering that fact recently: funny how there were less of the former and more of the latter these days.

Working as a freelance geological analyst wasn’t so much a way of life as a living. It meant he got to travel and it came with an reasonable income. It wasn’t his first choice of career, more like something that had been thrust upon him. But when circumstances brought him back to Wales, to Cardiff, to Cymru, to Caerdydd… he had decided to return in style. Arriving in Swansea International Ferry terminal he had made for the nearest car hire desk. (Wolfcastle decided it best not to hang around too long, the pilot of the light aircraft he’d arrived on didn’t have permission to land on the car park of the ferry terminal and would surely attract the attention of the local Heddlu before long). Wolfcastle had fully intended to be sensible and hire a nice family saloon, something Japanese maybe, but Lying Dave’s Auto Hire had a very good deal on European cars that week and something got the better of his better judgment. From there he’d headed into central Swansea, found the nearest branch of McNeegies, ‘The Store for Gentlemen’ TM and splashed out on three new suits and half a dozen shirts and ties.

Having done that he was of course obliged to pay for them.

The last job had been in a one of those central Asian, former Soviet republics that seemed to be springing up all over the place these days. The job had been as a consultant for the Anglo-Russian-Chinese Oil Rice and Gas International corporation, ARCORGI working up in the Causasus mountains in a place called Ordzhonikidzevskaya. Tiny little town, huge name. The work hadn’t paid so well but then again he didn’t have to pay any income tax either. Besides, in the three months he spent there, there really hadn’t been much to spend his pay on as few shops accepted the local currency. His contract had ended and circumstances, two airplanes, a bus and a taxi, (not necessarily in that order) had taken him back to Cymru.

In the Lada Wolfcastle decided it was time he got something to eat. Turning left at the Castle in the centre of town, he headed through the centre of the city. He deftly steered the Lada around the various groups of drunken pedestrians as they stumbled around in the middle of the road, desperately trying to locate the pavement. There were numerous eateries to choose from in this part of town, all of them designed to pedal overpriced, deep fried junk food to the hammered masses. Wolfcastle drove on.

Stopping at a red light he glanced across at two men engaged in the wild flailing of arms and lashing out of legs/feet that passed as a fight. Nearby three other men were yelling encouragement – not for either of the ‘fighters’, it seemed, just generally, to keep the fight going. Then, as Wolfcastle watched a barely-dressed girl appeared and began to screech, at a frequency barely audible to the human ear, for the fight to stop. Evidently one of the fighters was called ‘Leave-it-Gary’ and the other, in the girl’s alcohol hazed view, was “…Not Worth It”. The lights changed to green and Wolfcastle moved off, glad to be secure in the Lada with it’s anti-lock brakes, multiple airbags, central locking and air conditioning. Granted the brakes wouldn’t lock because they would hardly work at all, the airbags were in fact just two bags of potato chips taped to the dashboard, the only functioning door was indeed locked and the air conditioning was really just a broken sunroof – but he felt safe all the same. Added to that it was clear that the staff at Lying Dave’s took the small sticker stuck on the dashboard of their hire cars literally – ‘Seat bests must be worn’ it stated - and indeed they were!