Mr B and I are watching a programme on TV. We can't understand a word of it.
No, we are not being particularly dim tonight; the fact is the programme is all in Welsh.
Occasionally we hear a few words of English, presumably when there is no Welsh equivalent, and we can pick up on place names like Criccieth and Llangollen or people's names - David Lloyd George, Pavarotti.
are watching a programme starring Welsh singer, Bryn Terfel, who - we have been given to understand - will be singing with the Fron Male Voice Choir of which Mr B's Little Bruv, known to you as Mr H, is a proud member.
Good old Bryn talks to a lot of people while on his travels to some of the many beautiful places in "God's own country." Their names come up on our screen as they talk. "I bet she / he is Welsh," I keep commenting at the sight of every Williams, Davies
and Jones. The joke wears thin after a while - Mr B keeps letting out exaggerated sighs - but I keep it up because once I've started something, I don't know when to stop.
I only know a few words in Welsh,
despite being (according to the Darling Daughter-in-Law) an honorary Welsh Nanna. The (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys have taught me my numbers and colours and I can more or less sing Happy Birthday in Welsh, thanks to the repetitive nature of this popular
ditty. It turns out that these rudimentary language skills are not going to serve me too well this evening.
Ah but the scenery! And the singing! And here is the Fron choir, singing a song I don't know, in
words I don't understand in a country chapel. Bryn watches them with appreciative eyes before joining in. The conductor, on hearing his voice, turns round to flash him the most beautiful smile. I have shivers running down my spine as they sing. We catch a
glimpse or two of Mr H, singing his heart out as always.
While the adverts are playing - some in Welsh, some in English, it's a tad confusing - I take a moment to water the garden. The sunflowers are shooting
up towards the garage roof, Mr B's just an inch or two taller than mine. I water each plant, carefully ensuring equal treatment water-wise. If I were, as a result of some amazing growth spurt, to win the 2016 Sunflower Competition, I don't want Mr B to have
grounds for an appeal. Though who he would appeal to I'm not sure, as I am Planter, Waterer and Measurer all in one.
I pay special attention to our Golden Wedding flower bed, where the rose bushes we were
given as presents on our Golden Day have been planted. Each one is labelled with the name of the rose on one side and the name of the generous giver on the other. Worryingly there is one bush for which I have no note of its donor. This is a source of great
concern to me because it means I have failed to send a thank you card to somebody - who will never know how much we appreciated his / her / their kindness.
When I return to the living room, Mr B is still watching
Bryn talking to people with Welsh names. He is on a golf course and we hear the words "links course." We look at each other with a smile of sudden understanding.
The programme is almost over, the last song
about to be sung - and it's Mr B's all-time favourite, Canon Lân, with another Male Voice Choir providing the backing to Bryn's towering vocals. Canon Lân was sung at Our Boy's wedding to the Darling Daughter in Law - but we were out back, signing
the register during the singing of it. That was one of those times when you wish you could be in two places at once.
What a good thing we watched right through to the end, we congratulate each other. If we'd
turned over after the Fron, we'd have missed Canon Lân. Thank you, Bryn Terfel, for a programme of Welsh music and magic.
We didn't understand a word of it - and it didn't matter a bit.