Free Virtual Strangers by Lynne Barrett-Lee Page B

pretty-ish, reasonable bustline, topped off with reliably unruly hair.
    Having considered the miserable possibility of griffith being gorgeous stroke married stroke (arrrgh!) one of shaggable top six etc., I have instead decided he is allowed to be none of above. I have decided, rather, that griffith is/was an elusive, enigmatic, box of Black Magic chocolates type character, who has hovered mysteriously on the fringes of the Cefn Melin social scene keeping a profile too low even for eagle-eyed Simpson consideration. Indeed, I have expanded griffith into a figure of almost legendary and iconic proportions and imagined a whole saga-type international airport novel around him.
    Except set in Tenby, of course.
    11 pm
    But perhaps I shouldn’t have gone after all.
    Well there wasn’t any point in not going, was there? Not going would have involved spending Saturday evening watching Family Fortunes or Casualty or some ropey film effort, while absorbing a relentless whining commentary from Dad about how he’d gone to a lot of trouble making a Sussex Pond Pudding (True. But why?) and how he’d told all sorts of people he’d be going to the party and that they’d be very disappointed if he didn’t show (false, surely? ). Plus I knew Ben would never forgive me as his hormone surge is threatening to take him over entirely, with spot clusters rampant and claiming ever more territory, in the manner of bacteria on nutrient agar jelly. Plus, and mainly, as there had been not a single communication from mystery griffith all week, I was, I realised, practically hyperventilating with frustration about his steadfast refusal to spill the beans re. his I.D.
    So we went.
    Early reconnaissance revealed any number of prospective griffiths. Stableford parties always include a large male corporate contingent (from Bill Stableford’s cutting edge of technology type firm in Cardiff Bay) some of which could have been at Rose and Matt’s do also, given the complex dynamics of pairings and blood ties and, quite possibly, phases of the moon. And with Cardiff being Cardiff, you could sign up for a course in small mammal husbandry in the Amazon Basin and still expect to find someone you knew in the queue.
    But conscious that I was in danger of looking like an old mad crone with mystical vision who could see people’s spectral auras and so on, I decided being pro-active in griffith detection was a bit of a non-starter. I’d just have to bide my time, keep my wits about me, and hope.
    I joined in, therefore, with all the usual firework barbecue party type activities, draping myself alluringly over the Stableford’s swing-seat, and making appropriate weee! wow! noises as rockets expired in their milk bottles and Catherine wheels whizzed enthusiastically shedwards - I even took charge of an ironic sparkler contingent (the average child age being fourteen or so). None of which proved to be productive romantically, so eventually, spying a lone adult male, I went and holed up under the jaunty green barbecue awning instead.
    And found myself with a like-minded soul at last. Richard Potter, whose general air of skittishness might have led one less astute than myself to jump to erroneous cyber-conclusions, was never a contender for covert emailing stunts. Despite his glorious dancing come-to-bed eyebrows, over which he seemed to have little control, Richard sent out only signals of terror - terror lest anyone female and his side of eighty might leap up and shove their tits in his face. (This being due to a recent extra-marital-shenanigans crisis, and his subsequent - if now reversed - harrowing re-location by wife Julia to a lino-infested flat in Cathays.)
    I came upon him lurking by the condiments trestle, where, whilst ripping the skin from his chicken, crocodile fashion, he’d launched a volley of translucent pink blobs at his shirt.
    ‘Death by defrosted drumstick!’ I quipped.
    Blank look. Engineer. No food hygiene awareness. ‘Really?’ he said,