When I'm old, I'll say the summer they built the stadium. And I won't mean the council. I'll be hugging the memory of how, open to sun and the judgement of passing eyes, young builders lay golden and melting on hot pavements, the toast of Cardiff. Each blessed lunchtime Westgate Street, St. John's, the Hayes were lined with fit bodies; forget the jokes, these jeans were fuzz stretched tight over unripe peaches. Sex objects, and happily up for it. When women sauntered by, whistling, they'd bask in warm smiles, browning slowly, loving the light. Sometimes they'd clock men looking them over. It made no odds; they never got mad; it was too heady being young and fancied and in the sun. They're gone now; all we have left of them this vast concrete-and-glass mother-ship that seems to have landed awkwardly in our midst. And Westgate's dark with November rain, but different, as if the stones retain heat, secret impressions of shoulder-blades, shallow cups, as sand would do. The grey façade of the empty auction house, three storeys of boarded windows, doesn't look sad, more like it's closed its eyes, breathing in the smell of sweat, sunblock, confidence.