"Methyr Tydfil," I said. "What a pretty name. Is it nice?"
Sometimes I say really stupid things. It turns out that Methyr Tydfil is an almost unique blackspot, nearly deserted by industry, with 60 per cent of the male population signed off sick due to mining-related injuries. Or just depression.
This weekend I meet a social worker who used to have to deal with the mental of Methyr, but's now much happier dealing with learning difficulties ("The kids are great, but, oh, the parents...").
I can't exactly remember when it was decided he was coming back to mine. It could have been shortly after his flatmate announced "Watch him - he'll miss the last train and sleep with anything."
Certainly, in amongst the booze and another miserable attempt not to smoke, an arrangement was made. A mature gentleman's agreement - not really about love, or passion, more a "well, you'll do" on both sides.
Of course, he did do a final beauty pass of the club before we left, just in case he could find anyone better. I found him wrapped around a blond youth and began to make dignified excuses.
"Oh no!" he said, looking up, "He's working early in the morning. With you in a tick."
Sometimes, revenge is a dish best served without lube.