The Green, Green Grass of Home

So this time last week I was running on the West Highland Way. In fact I had been running for fourteen hours by this hour.

How things can change in one week, huh? One moment you're among the grandeur of the mountain scenery travelling steadily over the trail rigged in running gear, the next you're in a smog-laden London sitting in a hotel rigged in a suit.

Now the opportunities of my job to be suited and plotted up in a hotel are few, if they exist at all. That's 'cos I'm doing a spot of 'other-jobbing' and am in a place I can't name looking after someone I can't identify. But this spell of supernumerary employment should take care of the bloody parking fine that I picked up last year that has grown larger than Alistair Darling's nose after the budget.

What I can say is that yesterday I met a very pleasant cabaret singer from Wales called Sir Thomas Jones Woodward OBE. You may know him better as Tom Jones.

There I was, standing at the end of the very palatial suite within which was located my charge, when along came this large group of people. At the back was this fella in a grey sports jacket, wearing Ray Bans and sporting a Don King curly hair do. Immediately the words rang in my mind:

'The old home town looks the same, as I step down from the train, and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa.....'

'Hello Tom,' I said.

'Hello,' said the great man, in an accent as thick as the carpet.

Then he disappeared into his suite with his entourage. I saw or heard no more from Sir Tom that day and I reckon the 'Do Not Disturb' signs suggest he was tucked up in his scratcher dreaming of a woman called Delilah.

However, I arrived back in the same location today, this time in grey slacks, Ben Sherman shirt and hand-made blazer. This day is bloody hot and I'm very happy that my charge has apparently chosen to stay within these palatial and air-conditioned walls.

This gives me the opportunity to occasionally wander along the corridor to Tom's suite where earlier, I witnessed the arrival of a rail-full of sparkly and tight-fitting clothes.

Upon their arrival, Sir Tom himself opened the door and had the look of a child at Christmas.

Unfortunately I've seen no more of him today but have been lucky enough to hear a dressing up session occurring within his suite where the man from the valleys scuttles off to try on the newly delivered clothes and an assembly of admirers tell him how well that shirt goes with those shoes.

I've learned that our man is playing Glastonbury tomorrow, so I can assure anyone attending the mud-fest that Tom ain't chosen his rig lightly!

I can't help but wonder at how Tom Jones seems to have transcended musical styles and generations and remained cool. A kind of Murdo McEwan of the pop world.

I also wonder how much Tom really longs for the green, green grass of home. After all, after fifty years of Vegas, Paris, Rome and the place we were at today, would Pontypridd really draw the curly-headed one home?

I don't know. All I can say is I'm home now, among my own green grass (most of which is sold on street corners in little placcy bags) and have been for a week......but I'm sure that my beating heart still resides in the highlands where I left it seven days ago as I ran that magnificent race.

Or is this all just emotional nonsense? Brought on by a very demanding and life-signing event? I don't know, but I think if my heart has actually managed to dislodge itself from the highlands, it ain't gonna get much farther south than Strathaven.