I had some unexpected time off the weekend before Hallowe'en, so I started looking for somewhere to go. It was for a number of reasons, one of which is agoraphobia of an odd kind. I spent uite a while off sick with some really nasty life-threatening stuff at the end of 2019, which has had a profound impact on my health, and that was of course followed by Covid0related lockdown. Normally, I would spend a lot of my time travelling all over the UK delivering awareness sessions and training regarding trans and intersex people, but that simply stopped dead.

Once lockdown had eased, I was back into the office, and that was no problem. Neither was going grocery shopping. In September last year, I even managed to get myself out for a few days cycle camping and birdwatching in the New Forest, but that has been it. I haven't been able to make myself do anything else out of the house since then, apart from the shopping and working. Very odd.

I decided that the Sunday-Wednesday break needed to be seized, so I looked for a room in a Weymouth hotel I know, which just happens to be right next to a decent bird reserve, as well as not far from a certain nature-loving author of my acquaintance.

Not to be. It was booked up solid. I muttered one of Annie's standard swearwords, and then looked around. I had an idea... but the agoraphobia took over once more, and it was only with a great effort that I booked the hotel and train. Three nights in Cardiff, from Sunday evening to Wednesday morning.

It rained. It rained heavily, but not all the time. On the Monday morning, I took a bus out to the wetland area I describe in 'Broken Wings', and managed to see 22 species in a couple of hours gentle walking and sitting, including a small group of goosander and a grey wagtail. To my surprise, I was treated to the explosive song of a Cetti's warbler---rather late in the year for that. Having walked back into the Waterfront area, where else could there be for my lunch but the Eli Jenkins?

Tuesday was a boat trip (called a 'cruise', which made me laugh) around the Bay, starting from the shrine to Ianto from Torchwood, and some time at the Barrage and its Captain R.F. Scott exhibit, which always makes me a little weepy. That evening, I made my way to a well-known pink pub that may or may not have served as part of the inspiration for Marlene's place "The Smuggler's".

It was quiz night, all done with an 'app', so I couldn't have entered. The prizes were also all drinks vouchers, to be spent that night in the pub, so of no use to me. I ended up 'advising' a young engaged couple of lads they won a thirty pound voucher, which they insisted I help dispose of. Happy gay men, a skin-strippingly acerbic drag queen behind the bar--it was a great evening apart from one thing.

I had found two bar stools, one to rest my feet on for comfort, and that second one was claimed earlier in the evening by a man in his 50s with a number of comprehension issues. He was also missing a few other things, such as taste in hairstyles (think Morrissey) and moderation in the application of aftershave. He had a small rucksack with him, which clinked, and my impression seemed to be correct--a couple of bottles of wine for sharing if he 'pulled'. I tried to ignore his patter:
It's my first time here (or, asking the barmaid later, he does the same thing every night)
Do you want to go and sit together at a table? (And get groped? Um, no thanks)
Do you fancy men or women?
Which hotel are you in?
Is it a big bed?
Have you still got a cock?
Do you want to come round Caroline Street (Cardiff's fast-food post-pub mecca) with me?
We could go back to your room and share a doner kebab (Oh, you silver-tongued charmer!)
Do you not want to buy me a drink? (What? ME buy YOU a drink? WTF for?)

Eventually, he cleared off, but only after I had stood up and pulled my single stool over to the gay couple, who wanted to use their voucher to buy me drinks, and as he hovered, we switched the conversation to Welsh. That finally did it, and he finally Foxtrotted Oscar.

Thanks, boys.