London isn't nothin like Dolwyddelan

I've been back in rural north Wales for over a month now and, predictably, it's been one crazy rollercoaster ride so far. Highlights have included a) taking the dog for a walk and b) going down to the village to buy eggs for my mum. Yes, Dolwyddelan is pretty much exactly the same as it was in my youth, except so far I've managed not to throw up outside the pub or snog the coalman by mistake.

When we were teenagers my rebellious friend Sally said aren't you bored of throwing up and snogging and let's run away to London at the weekend to see the Chemical Brothers' gig instead. No way, I said, my mum will never let me. And anyway, we don't have enough money.

It's okay, said Sally, who'd thought of everything. We won't tell our mums, we'll dodge the train fare, and we can sleep under a van in a carpark in Brixton for the night for free.

Alright then, I said.

Pretending to be asleep for an entire train journey between Llandudno Junction and London Euston is more difficult than you'd think. We had to sit there with our eyes shut and our mouths open for four whole hours, just in case the guard walked by and wanted to see the tickets that we didn't have.

The gig was good fun — if you call watching two men playing records with somebody's elbow in your face for four whole hours 'good fun' — but trying to sleep under a van in a carpark in Brixton is more difficult than you'd think. What if the van driver comes back in the middle of the night and runs us over by mistake? I asked Sally. When I say she'd 'thought of everything' well, I don't think she'd thought of that. So we lay awake under that van for four whole hours listening to the crazy people walking up and down Coldharbour Lane, until eventually it was light enough to get up again.

On the train on the way home we were so tired we didn't have to pretend to be asleep: eyes shut, mouths open, all the way back to Llandudno Junction.