.

      My Name Is Dai

      I heard him say his name was die, and seconds later that it was short for

      David, spelt D-A-I. We had just sat down when he walked up to me

      and Susie. He said he recognized her from the National Portrait Gallery.

      The one with the large forehead above the door. People miss it. The sad

      smile. Beer sloshed against the edges of his glass like a fish trying to

      escape its bowl, but in this case the fish was dead and only looked to be

      alive because of Dai’s swaying. There are people who relieve themselves

      of information like a dog pissing against a streetlamp to mark out

      territory, urination no longer in the service of the body, providing no

      relief. Likewise, conversation. Dai was a type of Ancient Mariner.

      It was in his bones. He’d been working on a site with Polish builders

      and it was one of their birthdays. He mimed plunking bottles on the table.

      Vodka. Whole bottles? I’m Welsh, he said. I was born on a mountain.

      Between two sheepdogs. He started talking about the village he grew up

      in, how happy he was among the meadows and milking cows, how

      unhappy he was at school. You might’ve heard of one boy from school.

       A right goody. Spoke like Audrey Hepburn or Shakespeare. We all bullied

       him, but my mam would say why don’t you be like Michael, why don’t you

       be like Michael. Michael bloody Sheen. Michael’s shirts were always