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151. 28th October 2024, 3AM
The streets were washed from recent rain. It was nearing three o’clock in Monday’s morning, but feeling like it was still Sunday night. I stepped out and entered The Hayes, a pedestrian plaza in the very heart of Cardiff, which is where I live. It was just another sleepless night and I went roaming.
I think I suffer from DSPD, Delayed Sleep Phase Disorder. I have been this way my entire adult life, and if my self-diagnosis is correct, then there is no known cure. It has granted me a considerable amount of isolation for contemplation.
The stalls were being set up in The Hayes for the Christmas Market. A few soaring seagulls appeared luminous, contrasted against the dark sky. The Hayes was littered with brown leaves from the hybrid sycamore trees with mottled bark. There were people about. Not many.
A beggar asked me for money and I politely said no. Most days I’m asked about half a dozen times if I walk four blocks, but less often at three o’clock in the morning.
There are a few clubs opened and some will remain open until six in the morning. A heddlu van with flashing blue lights was parked halfway up the pavement. Heddlu is Welsh for police. I did not see any attention-getting commotion to explain its presence.
Two young fellows, happy and tiddly, stopped me on Mill Lane to ask if I knew where there were any casinos open at that hour. I told them I knew the whereabouts of many of the city’s casinos, but I wouldn’t know if any of them were open. My accent betrayed me and they wanted to know where I was from. When they learned I was born in New York City, they became excited and didn’t want to let me go.
Once more, I was asked to recite why I was in Cardiff, what did I think of the city, and how did it compare with New York? They wanted me to accompany them on their search for more drinks and a place to gamble. Although they seemed genuinely interested in me and sincere about including me in their partying, I declined. They were understanding and we shook hands before parting.
There was no blackness, just deepening shades of grey. The stars could not be seen because the sky was cloaked and reflected the city lights.
I headed for the pool of light that set Cardiff Central Square aglow. This area has been newly developed. The space is now wide in every direction and reserved for pedestrians. Of the buildings that enclosed the square, the brightest of all was the Cardiff Central Station’s white façade, unchanged since it opened in 1850. It was my destination – for no real reason. I had a letter to mail. I knew there was a postbox in the station. It had a late pick-up time, after four-fifteen in the afternoon. This way the letter I was mailing might not arrive at the same time as the previous two letters I had sent this weekend to my in-laws in Thaxted. I write them every day. The station was locked.
Except for the old station, the new buildings surrounding me were the Cardiff Bus Interchange, BBC Wales’ new studio and offices, and in 2 Central Square the Cardiff University’s School of Journalism, Media and Culture. I continued my nighttime adventure walking through this bright plaza and to the Wood Street Bridge crossing the River Taff.
As I crossed the river, there was a tall fellow coming from the opposite side loudly bellowing The Banana Boat Song. He was no Harry Belafonte. He stopped belting when he noticed me, but he wasn’t shy. As we passed each other, he bent towards me and made a threatening face. To what ends, I had no idea. I didn’t look at him, but kept my eyes on the direction I was heading and said, “If you’re looking for a kiss, forget about it.” From behind me I heard his late comeback, “Fuck you!” I must have disappointed him terribly.
I walked a block beyond the river and decided to return home by a circuitous route, turning right at the Eastern Chinese Supermarket on Plantagenet Street. I made my way through rows of homes to the A4161. I recrossed the River Taff on Cardiff Bridge, known to Cardiffians as Canton Bridge. This was Castle Street and there is a gold postbox across the street from the Cardiff Castle’s clock tower. It is painted gold to celebrate Cardiff's native son, Geraint Thomas, Olympic Gold Medal winner in cycling. This is where I posted the letter to Thaxted.
And there, wouldn’t you know, was a tiny all-night casino, Be Lucky. A sign established that they were open 24 hours. I felt like I already was lucky. Turning down Saint John Street, I was soon in The Hayes and back in my flat. It started to rain. Definitely lucky.
Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about
the events and concerns of his life. If you've any
comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you.
You can find his
several books at www.Bentzman.com.
Enshrined
Inside Me, his second collection of
essays, is now available to purchase.
