Plas-Y-Llanfairreggulugochgochutreaddurrer-Y-Pont-Y-Pony

As the rain started pounding the windscreen heavier by every passing half-mile marking post, I knew we were nearing Wales. Another good clue was that all the of the road signs had now doubled in size, in order to accommodate both English and Welsh warnings and messages. Since visiting Wales at least twice annually for the past five years, I have actually learned quite a lot of Welsh now. However, my knowledge is unfortunately restricted to phrases such as 'Reduce speed now', 'Caution' and 'Speed humps next 1/4 mile'. Useful when ordering food at a restaurant it is not, but then who needs that skill? Everyone except the die-hard Welsh nationalists speak English as well - sometimes even better than you.

My family had acquired the use of my dad's boss' house in the Welsh countryside, tucked away on its own private river with jetty, yacht and speed boat included. This bloke and his wife are seriously minted. Not only do they own this luxury weekend and retirement retreat in Wales, but they also have a flat in the city, a flat in another city and a ski-lodge in the Alps. Add to that the plethora of aforementioned water vehicles and three cars, and you'd be forgiven to think they were showing off a little. Still, we got all this for the week - and I'm not complaining, just jealous, that's all.

Anyway, we arrived on Monday morning after stopping off at this pebble beach (pebble beach? That's like having non-alcoholic wine!). You could never miss the turn off into the village, the sign is about 20-feet wide and five lines deep to encompass Plas-Y-Llanfairreggulugochgochutreaddurrer-Y-Pont-Y-Pony. Actually, that's blatantly a lie, but you get the idea.

I noticed on arrival that they had erected a small series of flood defences around the house, just incase there was enough rain to fill the river and swamp the place, as was probable by the end of our week there.

As day two dawned, I opened the window to be confronted by a rising tide and horizontal rain. Sigh! And resume position beneath covers for next half hour. Don't let your mind be distorted by that phrase: unfortunately Rachel was not present.

I tried again on day three and surprisingly had better luck. The rain had eased slightly and the tide was lower. I decided that now would be a good time to get some breakfast and then go explore.

You really start to appreciate triple Weetabix with whole milk when you're scrabbling up a scree slope on the side of a wet mountain. The rest of my family however had decided to rely on toast to keep them going until lunchtime. "How naive," I thought to myself as I headed on up the crippling gradient while they floundered below and negotiated sheep turds the size of small desktop computers.

The views were amazing and breathtaking. Actually, its the climb that takes your breath away: the summit is the chance you get to find out you forgot to fill the flask up and the nearest drink is seven miles away in a cosy tearoom complete with doilies and old people.

One thing I've never had to contend with before on a mountainside before is a friendly goat. A mainly white version of the species (the constant rain keeps it constantly clean) tagged onto me ten minutes from the top and followed me all the way up there. I ended up lobbing half of my cherished sandwich over the edge of a crag just to get it away from me. Christ, I've never seen anything descend so quickly using all four legs!

The next day we took it easy and went to a National Trust house and walled gardens. I think I blacked out with boredom next to a row of junipers.

On our final full day we went to the beach, because, you know what? We were inundated with glorious sunshine! Unfortunately, our visit was curtailed by my step-father getting his foot stuck in a groyne. It is pronounced 'groin' but is actually a coastal defensive rock formation, for those less geographically vocabulated.

I woke up to a high tide and mild drizzle for the last time on the final morning. The Weetabix had all run out and I was forced to eat toast and bananas like everybody else. The journey home again took three hours instead of half that because someone crashed a lorry full of sheep on the A55. Add to that a contra-flow further down and perhaps you can only begin to understand the pain of my return journey.

I had a bit of a nervous twitch the next morning. I think it was attributed to not having been on a train in two weeks. I needed my fix and went into town for no reason that afternoon to relieve the pressure.

Nottingham Part 1: The Home of Gang Warefare and Lace Museums

Well, here it is, the first part in a trilogy of four. I arrived in school on Friday 6th July to gasps and cries of disbelief. No, I didn't have exams or lessons to go to, for they had finally terminated long ago. Instead, all students in the year had to return their text books to school.

As I arrived, an exasperated teacher asked why I was wearing 'casual' clothes.

"Because," I told her (him? I'm not altogether sure actually), "I am getting a train in half an hour, and don't, forgive me, particularly wish to travel on a three hour journey across the country wearing my school uniform."

"But you're an ambassador to the school," she stressed earnestly.

"But I don't really care, miss," I replied, pushing past into the canteen where they had decided to stage this horrific event. Perhaps I should have addressed it as 'Sir'.

After meeting all of my teachers and exchanging books for signatures, I had to take the form (on blue paper for no apparent reason) to the school office to have it signed again and any outstanding bills paid.

The cheeky bitch then asked me to give back my locker keys.

"What?!" I retorted, "Its my own bloody padlock!"

"Yes, but you have to return it because its the school's locker."

After about five minutes arguing over who owns the padlock and key that I purchased from Lidl, one of the more respectful and understanding teachers came along and resolved the issue in my favour. Aside from myself, he is probably the only person in the building with an ounce of common sense about his person.


So, after all this pissing about with books (and Jingo's books as well! The lazy bastard buggered off to China and left me with his list of books to return! Shit that reminds me, he has got an outstanding payment for his Chemistry book he never returned. They won't give him his GCSE results without it. Should I tell him readers? I don't imagine he ever reads the entire post anyway. I never read his all the way through - how boring) I left the school. Bet them brackets confused you for a moment there. Chortle. Aren't I sneaky.

Furthermore, I had a train to catch. What I said earlier about getting it in half an hour was several kilos of army surplus grade bollocks: I had three hours to kill. This journey was surprisingly good compared with what I normally am unfortunate enough to experience.

I arrived in Nottingham to a hearty greeting from my still-brown-haired 67 year-old grandfather and his snazzy new Mazda 3. I'm not sure how the car gave me a hearty greeting though. He dodged in and out of lines of green taxis to get out of the station complex and progressed on wards to my grandparent's home. We also had to dodge in and out of lines of gun fire exchanged between the local gangs, but I'll save that story for another post.

Nottinghamshire County Police Force on patrol

After an excruciatingly slow and painful 10 minute journey back to their house, I stepped over the threshold with my bag into a spinning world of fabric softener, organic vegetables and tasteless upholstery. I've never been more glad to get away from home.