The one question writers are invariably asked is, “Where do you get your ideas from?”
As a schoolboy poet, Dylan Thomases might have replied (according to recently unearthed information), “From other poets!”
Lee Child, author of the best-selling Jack Reacher books might well say,“I see the terrible injustices going on in the world and allow Reacher to redress the balance a little by hitting seven bells out of bad guys!”
William Shakespeare wouldn’t answer . . . as he died in 1616.
I told you a while ago that local author Paul Leyshon had written his first children’s book “Joni Jones and the Ghost Train”.
It did so well that, despite being in demand as a TV producer and director, Paul found time to write a second book, entitled “Joni Jones and the Ghosts Of Gower”.
Paul obviously has a talent for writing spooky stories for children.
The first Joni Jones adventure was set in the mythical village of Nant-y-Glo, which Paul places somewhere on the old Beeching line between Carmarthen and Aberystwyth.
Paul was inspired after looking at old calendars of Loughor and Gorseinon that showed where the railway line had once been.
This, and the fact his mother had lived on Railway Terrace, fired his imagination and led to him writing his first book.
Railway Terrace isn’t there today, but Paul has old photographs of his mother and uncle on Railway Terrace.
He’s open to sharing these and wonders if any of my readers have old photographs of streets or roads that no longer exist?
When he teaches fantasy storytelling in schools (free of charge), children ask when he’s going to write another book.
Well now he has and “Joni Jones & The Ghosts Of Gower” is out now, published by Leyshon Publishing.
Paul hopes to be doing readings on February 28 and March 1 in the ‘Culture’ marquee for Croeso, Swansea’s annual St. David’s Day festival.
One of the many TV productions Paul has worked on is “Location, Location, Location”.
If he keeps bringing out new books, it’s quite possible that being an author is his true “Vocation, Vocation, Vocation”!

Ah, remember the good old days when a petrol station was just a place to fill up your tank and maybe grab a bag of coal if you were feeling particularly adventurous?
Fast forward to today, and these places have transformed into mini-supermarkets, stocked with everything from snacks to scented candles.
And, thank goodness for that, because Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, and we all know how much trouble us men can get into on this special day.
Gone are the days of last-minute panic when you realise you’ve forgotten to buy chocolates, cards, or flowers for your beloved.
Now, you can simply swing by the petrol station and find everything you need to save the day.
It’s like a relationship-saving oasis right there at the pump. Who knew that filling up your car could also fill up your love life?
And let’s not forget our Welsh men, who have an extra stroke of luck with St Dwynwe’s Day on January 25. It’s like the universe is giving us a three-week pre-warning for Valentine’s Day. “Hey, buddy, don’t forget to show some love!” How thoughtful.
So, the next time you find yourself in a last-minute Valentine’s Day frenzy, remember that petrol stations are not just for fuel anymore. They’re your one-stop-shop for saving relationships and making romantic gestures. Who would have thought?
And, hey, if you’re feeling extra lucky, maybe you’ll stumble upon a petrol station that offers relationship advice, too. Now that would be something. Just imagine: “Fill up your tank and your heart, only at Joe’s Gas & Love Emporium!”

In the run-up to Christmas there must have been more than 100 different stage productions of “A Christmas Carol”, professional and amateur, up and down the country.
And, of course, various cinematic versions turned up on our TV screens during the festive season, including the definitive 1951 version starring Alistair Sim as Scrooge.
For reasons unknown, one 2025 professional stage production took it into their heads to pre-warn potential ticket buyers that the show contained ‘Themes Of Death’.
You don’t say!
There can’t be many potential audience members for a show based on Charles Dickens’ novella who aren’t aware that the ghost of Jacob Marley warns Scrooge that he’ll be visited by three more ghosts on Christmas Eve and that the main qualification to call yourself a ghost is that you need to have ceased breathing.
Are we so sensitive we need to be warned about this?
Apparently so.
Here’s an example of how some people are unable to tolerate even the mildest of dramatic confrontations.
Television was so dire during the Christmas period I spent a lot of time switching channels and at one point caught a minute of a panel show discussing Christmas films.
When “It’s A Wonderful Life” was mentioned, a young lady panellist pulled a face, shook her head and said, “It hasn’t dated well. I watched it for the first time last year and there’s a scene where a man is unpleasant to his wife.”
I was stunned by this. Has she never watched a soap episode?
I assume the delicate flower was referring to the scene in which small town banker Geoge Bailey (James Stewart), facing financial ruin, obviously on the verge of hysteria and totally out of character, snaps at his wife Mary (Donna Reed) before running out of the house into the snow.
George’s suicide attempt is thwarted by his guardian angel Clarence, who shows him what the town would have been like if George hadn’t been born.
This is an emotional, pivotal section of the film,  which eventually has a happy ending.  Not dated well? It’s not dated at all.

Ah, the weather!
Once again, it has turned on us like a melodramatic soap opera star, leaving chaos in its wake and us mere mortals scratching our heads.
Storms with names, no less.
What’s going on here?
Is it a ploy to make storms seem more personable, like that neighbour you can never trust? “Oh, Karen knocked over my fence again!” Except, now, Karen is Storm Karen, and she’s also flooded your basement.
Let’s talk about this naming business.
Whose bright idea was it to give storms names? The tradition dates back to the 1950s when meteorologists decided it was easier to say “Hurricane Carol” than “That Really Big Windy Thing Over There.”
Now, storms sound like disgruntled co-workers, Dennis, Ethel, Nigel, and suddenly you’re mad at them personally.
It’s oddly therapeutic, to be fair. Blame Nigel for the soggy ceiling, not the unstoppable force of nature.
But why are storms becoming such divas lately?
The truth is climate change is the messy instigator here, turning regular storms into headline-grabbing celebrities.
Warmer oceans, rising sea levels, and unpredictable weather patterns are the ultimate reality TV cocktail, nature’s own “Keeping Up with the Atmosphere.”
The result? More storms, stronger storms, and yes, storm names dominating watercooler conversations.
And the damage? Don’t even get me started. Roof tiles are flying off like frisbees, trees are auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, and insurance companies are in a constant state of “please hold.” It’s chaos out there.
So, the next time someone mentions Storm Bob or Tropical Cyclone Cheryl, just remember: these names aren’t here to make storms friendly; they’re here to remind us that weather is no longer content with being boring small talk.
It’s the main event, and we’re all just along for the windy, wet, wild ride. Buckle up!

My concern that online shopping has had a detrimental effect on once-busy town centres that were a pleasure to spend time in was echoed in an e-mail I recently received from a mate who lives in south-east Wales.
His local town centre is a ghost of what it was.
Empty shops abound. Intimidation hangs in the air like an ominous sea mist. There’s little reason for residents to ‘pop into town, wander around the shops and have a bite to eat.’
Nevertheless, he and his wife paid a pre-Christmas visit to town and here’s an extract from the message he sent me . . .
‘We parked outside town, walked over the bridge and went into the market, once the bustling home of fishmongers, fruit and veg sellers, bakers, butcher, confectioners and a popular ‘faggots & peas’ café.
‘Upstairs, one enormous stall sold greeting cards and Mills & Boon romances. There was a vinyl record stall, a pet stall and, on Saturdays, rosey-cheeked country ladies sold fresh farm eggs. On my recent visit, niche street food sellers occupied the refurbished ground floor. Upstairs was closed.
‘We walked through into the high street which, on a Saturday before Christmas, was almost deserted.
‘Passing pound shops, cash-for-gold emporiums and Mothercare, W.H. Smith and a department store (all three closed), we recalled when British Home Stores, C & A, Littlewoods, Marks & Spencer and many other stores were around, we’d often spend all day in town. A Berni Inn steak was an occasional treat.
‘Now, with so few shops and no sign of the cinema re-opening after Covid closed it, the place has a grubby, depressed aura.
‘Perhaps the council is partly to blame for allowing too many out-of-town shopping centres, as are people who’d rather shop online than ‘pop into town, wander around the shops and have a bite to eat’.
‘Interestingly, a neighbouring town we regularly visit is thriving. If a shop closes, another business soon occupies the site.
‘Because people use it, they’re unlikely to lose it.
‘But my town is already lost.’
Think about that before you next shop online.

The other night, I found myself at a dinner party that could have easily been titled  “The Death of Conversation.”
Picture this: eight friends gathered around a beautifully set table, but instead of chatting, laughing, or even bickering over who forgot to bring the wine, they were all glued to their phones.
It was like watching a live-action version of “The Walking Dead,” but instead of zombies, we had a bunch of tech-obsessed diners completely oblivious to the culinary masterpiece in front of them.
Honestly, it seems the art of face-to-face conversation is on life support.
We’re hurtling toward a future where our only form of communication will be emojis and GIFs, leaving actual speech to gather dust in the history books. “LOL” will be the new Shakespeare.
But the madness doesn’t stop at the dinner table.
Take a stroll through town, and you’ll see phone-obsessed pedestrians weaving through the streets like they’re auditioning for a zombie apocalypse movie.
They strut along as if the pavement is their personal runway, while the rest of us perform Olympic-level sidesteps to avoid collisions.
And the consequences?
Oh, they’re real!
Last year, nearly 1,900 pedestrians ended up in A&E after walking straight into poles, walls, or worse, all while texting.
And let’s not forget the 14-year-old who, in a moment of multitasking genius, walked clean off an eight-foot bridge while messaging his mates. Talk about taking “falling for someone” to a whole new level.
So here’s my challenge to you: next time you’re out for dinner, count how many phones light up at your table.
Better yet, declare a phone ban for the meal.
Rediscover the lost art of talking, joking, and maybe even debating whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it does, by the way).
Yes, the lure of the screen is strong, but there’s something magical about a good, old-fashioned conversation.
It doesn’t crash, buffer, or need an update, and as far as I know, nobody’s ever fallen off a bridge while simply enjoying a chat.
So, look up, laugh a little, and let’s bring conversation back from the brink.

It’s behind us. The pantomime season, that is.
If you’re nitpicking (Mrs Betty Evans of Fishguard Harbour), I’m aware the Theatre Royal, Newcastle, panto is running until this coming weekend, due to the demand for tickets.
In Wales, the Rainbow Valley Productions version of“Sleeping Beauty” will be at the Congress Theatre, Cwmbran, during February half-term, after its sell-out Christmas season at Blackwood Miners’ Institute.
And, in Llanelli, the Friendship Theatre Group’s Cinderella starts at Ffwrnes Theatre on Thursday and runs until February 1.
But . . .
For most UK theatres, the panto season is over and the costumes, props and scenery are stored in warehouses until they re-appear in different productions next Christmas.
The pantomimes at the London Palladium are said to be the most extravagantly expensive in the country.
I’ve not seen any of them, but understand that each year they feature spectacular production values and a cast stuffed with real celebrities – not ‘reality’ stars.
Apparently, they also include a relentless barrage of double entendres so outrageously on-the-nose they may as well be single entendres, which you might not expect in what is, after all, family entertainment.
Then again, as the ticket prices are on a par with those of West End musicals, I don’t know if many families can afford to see it!
Today’s pantomimes tend to open any time from late November. When I was knee-high to all seven of the Seven Dwarves, they always opened on Boxing Day.
Then, in most major towns and cities, a four-week run was the norm, although some went on a lot longer than that.
A friend recalled (back in the late 1960s) seeing Mike and Bernie Winters in the final week of their panto, “Robin Hood” at the Bristol Hippodrome, during the Easter Holidays!
The duo just ‘walked’ through the show, looking jaded.
Not something that was ever said of the Victorian King Of Panto – Dan Lemo.
His shows filled the enormous Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London, every season for years, some running until March.
His “Babes In The Wood” ran from Christmas, 1888, until the end of April!
I’m reliably informed that the writing and planning for the next pantomime season starts immediately after the previous one ends.
Oh yes it does!

Sharp-witted readers among you may have noticed that this column has been gracing your morning coffee (or, let’s be honest, lining your compost bin) since June 2014.
That’s over a decade of my musings, proof that I can ramble on about absolutely nothing for a very long time.
When I was first asked to contribute to this esteemed publication, I was both honoured and utterly stunned.
Writing a regular column wasn’t even on my to-do list.
My typewriter was already busy holding up one corner of my wonky desk, and I was pretty sure it was plotting against me.
Could I really deliver thoughtful, engaging content week after week? And how many ink ribbons would I need for this ancient relic?
But, I embraced the challenge, and here we are, years later, still going strong.
Along the way, I’ve discovered that words have a magical way of connecting us, even across oceans.
I’ve received letters from Wales (of course), but also from Canada, America, and once, inexplicably, from someone claiming to read me on a boat in the South Pacific. I mean, who knew I had such a global fanbase?
Much of my inspiration comes from the wonderfully peculiar characters I meet during my travels.
Their stories fuel my creativity and spare you from a column packed with ads for double glazing.
Without them, this space would be as vibrant as a wet weekend in Merthyr Tydfil, no offence to Merthyr!
Writing this column has taught me that words are more than just letters on a page; they’re a bridge, a mirror, and occasionally, a very effective excuse for avoiding DIY.
So, here’s to the power of language and the many stories yet to be told.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my typewriter just fell off the desk again. Clearly, it’s trying to escape.

The song “Fame” declares, “I’m gonna live forever” – but fame doesn’t guarantee immortality.
Time marches on – and inevitably comes to an end – for celebrities, as it does for the rest of us.
At the end of every year we’re reminded of the many celebrities who left us during the previous 12 months and, at the time of writing, the list of actors (in no particular order) we bid fond farewells to in 2025 includes Robert Redford, Val Kilmer, Prunella Scales, Patricia Routledge, John Woodvine, Jack Shepherd, Joan Plowright, Gene Hackman and Diane Keaton.
A writer friend was acquainted, albeit briefly, with Anglesey-born actor Tony Adams, who died in October, aged 84.
He played Adam Chance in “Crossroads” for many years. then enjoyed continued success on the stage.
In 1993, my friend travelled to the Key Theatre Peterborough to discuss a play he’d co-written, which was being staged there the following year.
While waiting in the theatre café, he saw Tony Adams walk in with Jane Rossington, who’d also starred in “Crossroads”. They were appearing at the theatre that week in “Dial M For Murder”.
While Tony ordered coffee, Jane engaged my friend in conversation and he mentioned he’d written a corporate presentation for Tony a few years previously.
When Jane told Tony this, the actor smiled and said, “Of course! That went very well! How are you?”
Later, as Tony got up to leave he said to my friend, “You’ve had a run of bad luck, but that’s about to change. You’ll see.”
Before following him out, Jane said to my friend, “He knows what he’s talking about.” And then whispered, “His mother was a witch!”
My friend had no idea how Tony knew he’d been through a rough patch for six months, but appreciated his positive prediction.
A month later, about to run out of money, he was offered a well-paid television contract, which, in turn, led to him being in demand for many years.
If you don’t believe some people can predict future events, no explanation is possible.
If you do, no explanation is necessary . . .

Last autumn, my friend, let’s call him ,“Couch Potato Extraordinaire”, decided it was time to embark on a fitness journey.
The timing was impeccable, considering we were halfway through a glorious feast of chicken tikka masala, onion bhajis, poppadoms, and garlic naans at the most bizarre Italian restaurant I’ve ever encountered.
Seriously, who serves tikka masala in a place that specialises in spaghetti?
His fitness plan was refreshingly low-key.
No marathons, no CrossFit memberships, just the World Health Organisation’s advice to walk 10,000 steps a day. A nice, round number. Manageable, right?
Fast forward to last week, and I spotted him waddling, sorry, I mean walking, down the Kingsway in Swansea.
Oddly enough, he seemed to have gained a few pounds.
Naturally, I approached this delicate situation with my usual grace and subtlety. “Oi. Chubster,”  I hollered, because nothing says “friendship” like a good old-fashioned nickname.
His head whipped around, proving that my nickname still had its charm.
But here’s the kicker: both of his hands were full, one clutching a Greggs pastie and the other mid-gesture with a Greggs sausage roll.
I couldn’t really criticise; I was busy devouring my own sausage roll at the time.
Between bites of flaky pastry, I asked, “Weren’t you supposed to be doing 10,000 steps a day?”
He sighed dramatically. “I was. But I couldn’t find a single building in this city with 10,000 steps to walk up and down.”
You’ve got to admire his logic.
Intrigued, I decided to investigate this “10,000 steps” phenomenon.
Turns out, it wasn’t just plucked from thin air like the “five-a-day” fruit and veg mantra.
It all started back in 1964 when some clever researchers in Japan discovered that walking 10,000 steps burns about 20% of your daily calorie intake.
Brilliant. By my calculations, if you walk 50,000 steps, you’d burn 100% of your daily calories. The only problem? If you actually walked 50,000 steps every day, by the end of the week, you’d have marched all the way to Hereford.
I hear Hereford’s lovely, though. Maybe there’s a Greggs there?
My friend could definitely use the walk . . . and I could use another sausage roll!