Not through a drunken mistake I hasten to add, but an honourable intention to call in at Spoons en route......I decided against it when I saw the scrum outside.
Hanging like a dead oak leaf caught on one spider's thread (now there's an idea for a haiku!), I was returning from the launch of Rhondda-born Rob Cullen's first book of poetry, 'Uncertain Times' ( Octavo books) at Octavo's in Cardiff Bay, the old Tiger part.
The book brings together Rob's work from the 70s to today and his many experiences in East Moors steelworks, the States, the Valleys and working in the Probation service.
His own black and white photos complement the poems, which move between tender ones of love and family and others much more harrowing.
I was delighted to open the evening at such a wonderful venue, and one more people should know about.
People think of the Bay as chains and politicians, boat trips and Daleks, Millennium Centre's huge helmet structure and Roald Dahl's boyhood Norwegian Church (yes, he was once Welsh!).
Octavo's is only round the corner, past the scaffolding and it's a bookshop, cafe, events hub and even publisher, run by Rhys Milsom ( also from the Rhondda, and a poet).
A place of space and imagination, though not quite enough room for everyone who wanted to come to Rob's launch . Great coffee, gourmet chips, fine wine and real ale, open mics and launches......Peter Finch will have to write another 'Real Cardiff' book just to do it justice.
Rhys was another reader, as was Suzanne Iuppa , originally from upstate New York but working as a 'ranger' for some time in Snowdonia (didn't know we had them over here!).
As well as excellent readings from these two , there was inspirational singing from Rob's wife Fiona and daughter Cara : songs of the earth and 'caneuon yn y Gymraeg'.
Octavo's is indicative of the really lively poetry scene in Wales at present. I am dangerously optimistic ( though, as a Cardiff City fan, I should know better).
From Newport's Murenger in the east, to the Cellar Bards in Aberteifi in the west, there are thriving Open Mic sessions, invariably with minimal backing from Lit Wales.
Social media has helped in every way.
Firstly, Twitter and Facebook make it easy to publicise, form groups, start pages, post photos and videos.
Secondly, a lot of people attend these events to get away from the digital age : to savour the spoken word, take part, buy books and socialise.
These events are vital as they give many a sense of belonging and identity which no number of Facebook groups can achieve.
You never know what's going to happen and the transformations made by my good friend and comrade the Bartzman illustrate this.
He began as our resident heckler, then did some cartoons and covers for Red Poets magazines and now the latest issue (number 22) features one of his poems for the first time.
He is normally a surrealist, though this short poem is more didactic and his statement 'Revolutionaries of the world unite - / You have nothing to lose ' is a fitting way to open the magazine.
Though some who go along to these Open Mics would not embrace the politics of the Red Poets , that revolutionary spirit is nevertheless afoot.
It's a philosophy of creating an alternative to the bland and identikit.
People come to be stimulated and also entertained ; it is a way of seeing the world differently and hardly a means of escape.
You may not detect it on telly; you may only hear fragments of the mainstream on radio , but poetry is flourishing in these pubs, clubs, cafes.
Many argue that it is just for the converted, yet when I edited 'Poetry Wales ' for 5 years I soon realised the astonishing number of people who wrote it, though often never read or listened to the work of others.
This is changing......A revival?.......Yes, why not!
ESCAPING THE WEEK
It's Friday night
everyone's escaping the week,
it's pub to pub
and throwing out at clubs
and there's a fight.
The police sirens ring
the town in screaming sound,
a girl is mouthing off
at her boyfriend, the train
up the Rhondda's late
and nobody's got a light.
I feel like a ghost
on the raised platform
of the homeward bound,
with a rucksack of books
and magazines, clear vision
of the flashing cars.
One wrecked bloke in trackies
has shat his pants
and the railway police
are not changing him,
his girl hovers over
bird without wings
she keeps dropping.
It's Friday night escaping
the jobs and benefits ;
the blood, the laughing,
the sober ghost,
the swearing threats,
the cwtches, the clasps.