INNOCENT little Catherine Mary has fallen into the decidedly sticky web of that serial philanderer Brammy (well, he wishes, anyway). The crafty old bowling-ball shaped one has a special way with the ladies that goes something like this... he spots a delicate young flower, sidles over in his friendly way - like a favourite uncle who spoils you rotten - and makes her an offer she can't refuse. As she is young, and new, and eager to make new acquaintances, of course she is going to accept.
The conversation generally goes something like this:
"Hello, my lovely. Me and some of the chaps are going out for a little drink tonight and thought you might like to come."
"Oh, that's very kind of you... thanks very much, I'd love to."
"Ok, then be in the Old Scroat (*delete for Model Inn/Boars Backside where appropriate) at 6pm."
Of course, when his prey walks into the trap, Brammy is ready to pounce.
On Friday Catherine Mary turned up expecting to see all her old Celtic newspaper mates sitting around, drinking beer. Bram had some bad news for her.
"Oh, I'm sorry lovely, they've all gone. You know, had to get away early for their buses etc. Never mind, have a pint of old scroat, I'm sure someone else will turn up soon. By the way, would you like a roll up, it's mixed shag you know."
And after half an hour of this banter he feels comfortable enough to pounce. "So what are we having for breakfast, my lovely?" is the normal chat up line.
By the time we turned up to visit him on Friday night Catherine Mary was nowhere to be seen... the problem with Brammy's plan is that, even after honing it over hundreds of years, it has yet to pay off. Never mind, old chum.
Today was a particularly arduous day. Once again Welsh rugby's great bubble of anticipation was burst when the Scarlets failed at the Heineken Cup semi-final stage (beaten by those English chappies at Leicester, don't you know) and the Dragons came a cropper in France in Europe's minor competition.
Lunch was pasta carbonara half and half, and I also had a Merguez sausage roll with salad and English mustard. When Wren turned up to collect my keys so that she could drop some stuff around the house the mustard had managed to find itself onto my nice, clean white shirt. I am a mucky pup.