A new man offered to make cakes for Zac's. The week before last he sent one down; this week he came himself. I complimented him on the moistness of the cake and he said it was a secret recipe.
I grinned. 'Your mammy's old recipe, was it?' I asked.
His face fell.
'Actually, there was a falling-out; I haven't seen her for years.'
On the plus side at least she wasn't dead. And on the double plus side I didn't say that aloud either.
It wasn't my night really.
Later we as a group were asked what changes we'd made to our lives. I began to talk about my attitude towards the English rugby team (and my struggle to support them ever) and one of the lads interrupted. 'Where are you from then? You don't have a Welsh accent.'
'That explains it. It's posh down there.'
'Didn't you know,' I asked, 'that I'm Zac's token Tosh Potty?'
It wasn't until everyone burst out laughing that I realised what I'd said.
No, the sort of night I should have kept my mouth firmly closed.
P.S. It's only the Welsh who think I don't have a Welsh accent.
P.P.S. When I first started going to Zac's, Blossom, one of the bikers, nicknamed me Posh Totty and it's sort of stuck. Even Sean introduces me as that now. Even though I'm not.
P.P.P.S. Actually Blossom used the phrase Posh Bird.