It is October 13, 1993. A Wednesday night. The weather is unremarkable. I am nine years old and my life is about to change forever.
Three hours in a metallic green Ford Sierra estate await.
My dad has picked me up early from school so I already feel like the absolute rock star of Blwyddyn 4. The Llandysul bypass is many years away from completion and so the journey through Wales’ backwaters to the Welsh capital is stomach churning. Thoughts turn towards the sweet release of Pont Abraham, that despicable pitstop held in such high regard by us children of rural Wales. A place of family holiday and school trip toilet stops. Of hardened breakfast sausages sat under heat lamps. On the edge of the M4’s yellow brick road.
