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As a teenager, I was allowed out only until nine o'clock on Thursdays to go to the St Barnabas Church hall dance in Penygraig. When I stepped out one Thursday, it was a cold dry, winter night, with no moon at all to help me see my way.

I thought I knew every step of the way down into Penygraig from Library Road, but when I reached the end of the pavement going down, I knew I had to cross the road. I held my arms straight out in front of me to get across the road, and it seemed to take forever. Only when I stumbled on the curbstone on the other side did I realise I had made it across.

Delighted, I lowered my arms and stepped forward gingerly, but not carefully enough. Suddenly, my nose met the wall on the other side with a bang. When I felt the hot, sticky blood trickling down, I could have cried, but I didn't. Now I had to turn around and go back home; I couldn't go to a dance with blood all over me. I turned to go back up the road, but I was disoriented after the bang and didn't know which way I was facing - and there was no one to ask for help.

I never got to the dance that night, and always made sure there was a moon in the sky when I went out after that.