The £500 Fortnight, part 1: DiscWorldCon IV - A story of conspicuous consumption

I am chronically indecisive. If I'm faced with a choice of things to do, I vacillate until the very last minute.

What do you do when the plans for a weekend fall through? In my case, you panic and fluctuate wildly between alternatives until it's as close to too late as is possible. But in the end, I decided to go to Discworld Con IV – the biannual Terry Pratchett convention.

Now, the thing is, I've been going to conventions for a long time. A scarily long time. About 17y: since 1987, Conspiracy, the Brighton Worldcon, where I spent almost every spare penny I had to sail back from the Isle of Man to England again to go down to stay in a youth hostel for a long weekend. And damned good it was, too.

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The £500 Fortnight, part 2: Infested with Goths

In 1998, I had another of those agonising choices. A good mate, geoffcampbell, was holding his annual party again. This time, though, it wasn't in relatively-handy Surrey, it was in West Wales, at his new gaff in Carmarthen. I really fancied going, but not on my elderly and sluggish BMW Boxer outfit. However, at the last minute, it emerged that a friend was going, by car, and was happy to offer me a lift.

So, we went, arrived fashionably late – about 10:30pm, I think, to be greeted by landsmand grinning Satanically through the flames of an enormous barbecue - we drank – lots – and lo, it was good. Very good.

Since that year, I've been back every time, and it's always been an absolute hoot. I've ridden tiny trailies around rutted fields, I've larked about on the trike, I've borrowed khaylock's street-legal trailie and hooned around the back lanes of Carmarthenshire, and generally had a really good time.

This year was to be different.

( 2,150 words... oh dear... )