Last night becomes another drinking night in Cardiff. Well, my first drinking night for a while to be fair, after helping flatmate#2 move in to take the spare room. Slightly bizarre being the only man in an otherwise all-woman all-lesbian moving crew but the job was done quickly, then time for drinks.
Fast-forward past earnest conversations about Welsh nationalism, dreams of American road-trips and other trivia, until it’s just down to me and H in a bar. H has often complained/observed about my lack of social skills when it comes to strangers in bars, and has apparently taken it on herself to be my Fairy Godmother and sort that side of life out.
So somehow, someway, a mother/son combo are brought to the table. Just at the point when my eyes are closing and I’m ready for bed.
H tells me – in a slightly unsubtle manner off-table – that the mother is someone who is much more attractive than my previous girlfriends, and a fascinating woman to boot so I really ought to chat her up. Not quite an observaton I’m inclined to agree with, since she’s an earnest Earth-mother type with dyed red hair not quite hiding the grey roots, but she’s not terrible. Not my type either.
The main problem is the son. I’m not fazed by young people with wild black hair, ear-rings up the wazoo and a sharp metallic point under his chin. It was more his simultaneous “just escaped from a mental asylum” and “I’m a 14-year-old boy who needs my mommy” attitude which really scared the bejesus out of me. And he just gave me a really creepy feeling.
On the way out of the pub, his conversation went from trying to get me to see his band to suddenly something involving knives and guns. And it was at that point I realised that we’d all walked to my house, which is just opposite the pub. Oh dear.
So this is why I don’t like drinking in Cardiff.