I'm standing in an unheated Leisure Centre in the Welsh Valleys. Next to the National Orchestra of Wales (string section). Handing out postcards to disinterested schoolchildren. While wearing a t-shirt that says HERE FOR YOU.
I am not happy. I am just very cold. The girls from the Catholic School turn up wearing high heels, micro skirts and unimpressed expressions. Even their highlights are sulking.
It's a relief that the girls are so highly sexualised ("I'm pretty. I know it. You can fuck off. Unless you've got fags."), but the boys just aren't. They've not even looked themselves in the mirror for three years. So I emerge with dignity intact, beyond a momentary flutter about a tall teenager with careful hair.
After lunch everyone starts speaking Welsh. Even the tea lady.
I get so cold I tip scalding coffee on my hands to warm them up. My scream of pain nearly makes a schoolchild look up from the lino.