Flirty Frosty

On Saturday Morecambe FC were playing away in Merthyr Tydfil, a town folded into the valleys of South Wales. It's only a couple of hours away on the train.

I decided to have a little rest in the chain pub next to the station. It was rammed with Swindon supporters on their way to watch them play Bristol Rovers. There's always a few minutes with football supporters to see if one can relax or whether one needs to prepare for a quick exit; fortunately they were loud but peaceable.

The weather got worse and worse, and my coat, which started life warm and cosy, quickly turned into a thin sodden duvet. The zip got stuck so there were some Chuckle Brothers-ish scenes in the pub as I had to lift it over my head and clamber back into it, the wet sleeves sticking to my arms.

The Winchester was a lovely warm pub (in Bristol many pubs inexplicably like to keep their rooms cold). I got chatting to a friendly Merthyr fan who walked me up to the ground. I had invited a Shrimp I met on the train in for a drink as well but I should have known he'd decline once I saw a water bottle on his table. He'd lived in London for twenty-five years though, so we must try to be understanding towards the Southern kind of man who takes a water bottle to a football match.

There was no segregation of the fans and plenty of supping on the terraces, although I was so sodden by this point I could have just wrung out a sleeve had I got thirsty. It was so cold that with the best will in the world, I felt a bit disconnected from the game, despite it going our way. Wherever I moved under the the leaky roof, I'd position myself just in the right spot for a big drop of cold Welsh rainwater to slither down my neck.

On the train to Cardiff afterwards, the party was undimmed by the weather: several valley girls in short dresses with about one flimsy waist-length jacket between a party of four, casting a glittery shadow over their lads, dressed in the usual careless, no-effort style that young men dress in on nights out. All were swigging away on the Prosecco under notices saying that alcohol is prohibited on this section of the line.

I stood up to attempt the route to the loo. At that moment, the train lurched and somehow I managed to grab the arm rest, lift it up, and ram it into my side before I tumbled to the floor. I got a cheer from the company; I grinned manfully from my forlorn position.

In the following days the pain got worse, to the point where it was a slow, multi-stage operation to get out of bed. Mel invited me up to hers for a couple of days, seeing as I have an unusable kitchen (and you've seen the mess of the flat). I rang in sick at work, and now I am on annual leave. I found some old codeine tablets, which is helping a great deal, although I'm not getting the druggy, dissociative effect I was looking forward to.

Back here, the kitchen is almost finished, and I am now living with the old cooker a few inches to my right as I type this, until I can sell it, or give it away. And ruminating on an unexpected development: the cleaner at work (late fifties, blonde, slim, chatty) and I started texting yesterday evening. She shares my dislike of spiders and somehow I got myself into a promise with her to make a cake, once we get the first frost, which will kill them off. So now I call her Miss Frost. I have re-read the texts a couple of times, and I can't avoid the impression of flirtiness.