Damaged Goods

 

Perhaps by the time I had got to Voluntary Arts Wales, I was damaged goods. I had spent all my cartridges circum-navigating Wales in the name of the Federation of Young Farmers. I jumped ship. I got the job at VAW before 99 others or so I was told or was it nine. They shouldn't have employed me because I had smoked a big fat joint the night before and at the interview in Canton, just off the eponymous ley line of Cowbridge Rd East, I was just like Spud in his interview from Trainspotting. 

 

Needless to say, I got the job with my impressive insider knowledge of Wales and its different peoples. I span tall tales of the differences between Anglesey and Monmouth and that I held the key to opening up the people to their way of thinking. The fact that I spoke Welsh was going to be a help to the monoglot bosses. A Welsh donkey! A pack horse ready to carry the Anglo Saxon message to well meaning voluntary arty types. What I should have been doing instead of sitting for interview for these soppy sods was setting myself up in a cave somewhere in Eryri, setting myself up as a Welsh Speaking Hermit instead of doing the devil's dirty work. I was and am damaged goods.