Carlos was an angry cat, and it was only half eight in the morning. Apart from a documented history of anger management issues he’d also had daily second breakfast at number 74 whisked away in a slightly unstable moving van. Oh how he’d miss in-depth conversations about the environment, politics and the price of wet food. He wandered the block, thinking about how everything had changed. The place was full of posh professional types now, no time for anyone – barely time for a morning shit. Time to move on thought Carlos; he was young, likeable and adaptable he reasoned.
He got in and was on Right Move straight away, eyes closed and lucky claw extended he randomly selected a place. Through unsure eyes he examined where he’d chosen, Rhosneigr flashed on the screen. To a city cat like Carlos who’s idea of ‘out in the the sticks’ was Essex this seemed ideal. Having spent his last pennies on a healthy supply of weed Carlos headed to Euston station. Avoiding the tube he took his healthy weed supply, laptop and a limited selection of clothes via foot mentally saying goodbye to places. Bye London Bridge. Bye London Eye. Bye ally that was great for a sneaky wee after a night at the pub. He even bumped into Rodger the coke dealing DJ fox with a slight b.o problem on his way – crying tears from both the smell and sadness.
Carlos finally made it to Euston, the next train to North Wales was to Bangor at 14:17. He killed 20 minutes before heading to platform 12 past the roman style rhino statue. Short on money but rich in charm Carlos failed to persuade the Virgin Trains guy to accept a near perfect rendition of Nick Cage’s 4’33 performed ironically. After being told this wouldn’t fly it was bribery via weed for the win. Inside the train was warm and cosy, the red plush seat accepting Carlos gladly. Pulling out a surprize mp3 player Carlos put on the trendiest band he knew, The Puking Monkeys, and dosed off.
Rudely awakened by a train attendant he got off the train and into Bangor and frankly it was cold! Based on decidedly shaky directions to the bus station he walked past an overly yellow pub and took a left at the clock tower. He got a couple of funny looks due to his choice of casual suit but was soon speeding across the Menai Straights. After an hour and a half and 50 stops he was in Rhosneigr. Slightly worried about his future but mainly about his haircut Carlos took stock of what Rhosneigr was missing. A good beach, summer-time student and surfer influx AND a tragically under-served aging local population. Rhosneigr needed a pot dealer.
And that’s how Carlos of Brazil via London got a new job, house and girlfriend in the space of a month. He then inexplicably left Rhosneiger when he inadvertently caused a police crack down when he started selling horse meat and moved to Wickam-under-Siege. Every cloud and all that though; there was a charming newt called Arnold to terrorise, wait the other one, befriend.
Read the original instance of this story here.