March 21: Dirty weekend

Despite her own troubles, my old school friend is looking after me. A while back, she invited me for a weekend away in Narbeth, a near-seaside town in Pembrokeshire. Her friends have a cottage in the town centre which we can use, she said. There is a good deli. There are beaches. It can fit four of us (her two other flat-mates and a dog). I'm sold.
In the day, Narbeth is a delight. There are galleries. One sold Rolf Harris' prints (can you believe he will be 80 this year?). One sold terrible out-of-focus photographs of fly-tipping. A pile of wasted tyres to hang on your wall anyone? Go on, it's only £200. Another sold Art made of tampons (clean ones) which were actually quite lovely - from a distance.
We found a knitting shop. I now know what to aspire to. Knitted products can be beautiful. You just need good organic, home-dyed wool and - well - a bit of talent. I especially marvelled an old-fashioned pale-brown blanket, made in one go with many different stitches. I thought: 'I will never be able to do that'.
I also learnt that there is a stitch called 'turkish fagotting'.
I'm not sure what this is but my mind is conjuring up images of turkeys, Turks and faggots. I'm not sure how they all go together.
Our Saturday night out in Narbeth, though, did not get off to a good start.
This is what happened.

8.45pm and hungry (we did not think this unduly late).
We walk to a local restaurant that is quite buzzing but clearly has free tables.
We enter:
Polite: 'Do you have room for four?
Not so polite: 'No.'
'Oh, are you sure. There are very obviously free tables?'
She goes to check - then says, 'Yes, of course, come in,'
Better.
We are seated. Ten minutes later, we try to order.
'Oh, did no one tell you? You can't have anything off the main menu. You can only have a steak off the volcanic grill (no good for us as one is a vegetarian). The chef's got to leave at 9pm you see. He won't stay any later. It's a Saturday night and he wants to leave.'
We find another restaurant.
One of our team's food is cold. The other has the tiniest piece of chicken known to man. Half way through - we are the only ones in there - they turn the music off. We try to pay but the waitress is chatting to her mate who has come through the door.

We go to a pub. This is quite exciting. I have not been to a pub for a long long time. I like pubs and I have missed them.
With my pea-sized bladder, I go straight to the loo while the others order their pints - and my bitter lemon.
No bitter lemon, it seems.
Ginger beer?
Nope.
I ask the barman: 'What non-alcoholic drinks do you have?'
He says: 'Coke, lemonade, orange juice or all three mixed together if you want. This is a boozer, in it. We sell boooooozzzzzzze.'
I don't think any of us have ever felt so unwelcome in our lives. We hide in a booth with our coats on, ready to scarper.
A man comes in, drunk, old before his time, bedraggled.
'Oi, girls. Can any of you play the piano. I'll play you a tune.'
Unsteady on his feet, he collapses on the piano stool, flips open the lid of the battered old beast, starts slowly going up a wonky scale with a few duff notes...
Then the evening gets a whole load better.
He is called Reg and he is absolutely fantastic. Steaming drunk (he'd been at the races all day and lost £150). But boy could he play.
Every tune you wanted. Old ones. New ones. Well, not Michael Jackson. Or Tom Jones.
'Bloody Tom Jones, I'm not playin that rubbish.'
Soon, all the girls were up. Singing. Dancing. A local joins in. So drunk, her belt is hanging off her trousers and she later ends up falling asleep on the bar stool.
(She's also - in true Gavin and Stacey style - called Nessa).
Then the local boys come out to play.
Tarmac Dan (who is called Dan and Tarmacs roads for a living); Harry Potter Shane (he has a scar on his forehead) and some others.
I think they spot four out-of-town birds and think their luck is in.
Got to be said, though, I don't think their eye-sight's much cop.
They'd clearly added me into the 'available' equation.
Tarmac Dan was after me (I'm not bragging, this is the truth.)
There was no doubt. Seven months pregnant. And he didn't even notice as he threw his arm around my shoulders and tried to buy me shots and make me dance.
Either that, or he didn't care.
In his defence, he was very drunk. 'I'm steamin,' he yelled.
At one point, him talking about being a Tarmacer yet again, my friend said:'Oi Dan, stop talking shop will you.'
To which he replied: 'I'm not talking shop. I'm talking work. I don't work in a shop. I Tarmac.'
Bless.
By the end, even I was dancing by the piano. Reg was stupendous.
Not only could he play for Britain, he also had an iPhone (which clearly contained lots of porn as he wouldn't let us look at the pictures), and a Facebook page.
The best bit?
When we drove back to Cardiff the next day, to return the cottage keys to the owners, we told them about Reg.
The mum, who grew up in West Wales, said: 'Reg Mathias. I know him. My father was his headmaster. Here, I'll show you pictures of him when he was eight.'
I love Wales.