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Showing posts from September, 2015

The Taking of Mechlyn 123

  I rang Traveline North Wales to ask if getting to Mechlyn Spa, North Wales, for a seven-thirty curtain-up next Saturday would involve kayak, farmer’s cart or donkey cavalcade.    Nerys, helping me, sighed;   I heard  typing noises, and she gave me the time of a bus from Aberystwyth to Mechlyn Spa leaving at two-fourteen on that Saturday afternoon.       And I didn’t ask for a second opinion as I have done with all call centre advice since July when a phone-psychic wished me luck with my third pregnancy.   Moiling off the train and down the hill to the Aberystwyth bus station, I found that the bus Nerys had highlighted only ran at two-fourteen on market day: every alternate Wednesday.    In three days, ten hours and fifty-six minutes time.   Stranded in Aberystwyth.    Frazzled from touring as Madame Galina Prima Ballerina. Chronically sore where ligaments in the foot I favoured for pirouettes were trying to tunnel their way out via my Achilles. Two-hundred-and-forty-seven pou