For my first few years in Cardiff, I felt like an outsider. I had the weird accent. My mother was dead. People would ask me about her, and I’d shrug. There wasn’t much to say. They’d ask me if Canada was cold. Yes, it’s fucking cold. (Okay, I didn’t say ‘fucking’, because I was ten, remember). The winter tends to be cold. Because of the snow. They’d ask me why I’d moved to Cardiff. What my Aunt did. She works in banking, I’d answer, though what I really wanted to say was, she works in banking, until she finally locks down one of those desperate divorced dads she’s always after. One with a solicitor’s salary and no dependants, if she had her way.