Wednesday, May 3

Generally, Mr Meep and I rarely get to spend any time together on our own. This week, every night's booked up with one thing or another, except for last night.

So to make the most of our one evening of chilling out at home, I went to work at stupid o'clock, so I could get the flock out of here as early as possible.

Mr Meep was at a meeting quite near my work, so he called me at 4.30 and said he'd pick me up. You know, in the car.

5pm No sign of Mr Meep.
5.15pm Still no appearance.

(I have lost my mobile phone, so don’t have his number on me to call him)

5.30pm Where the bloody hell is he?
5.45pm Just me left in the office trying to kill time by looking at pictures of cakes on Flikr.

6pm Now have the holy trinity of feelings guaranteed to get me really, really cross: bored, hungry and tired.

Then I remembered – his mobile number is on his website.

Bring, bring, bring, bring
Mr Meep: "Where have you been?"
Me: "Where have YOU been?"
"I'm in The Rhondda."
"I'm in The Rhondda."
"I heard that – what are you doing there?"
"I… er… took a shortcut and got a bit lost."

The 'shortcut' had taken him on a 35-mile detour, ending up in one of the most depressing areas of South Wales - possibly the world - famous for heroin and high unemployment.

"How long have you been up there?"
"About an hour – there are no signs telling you how to get out."
"Why don’t you ask someone?"
"I did – they didn’t really know. At one point I just pulled over in a car park and screamed. I've never done that before."

He was right – once you get into the Rhondda, there are no signs anywhere pointing to civilisation. You can not get out.

We did get home eventually – at 7.15pm. Bah.

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