Yesterday I found myself a B&B in Swansea. I booked it in the tourist information centre next to the bus station and having done so, walked down Oystermouth Road, a short way west of the city centre, to collect the key. On my way there I noticed signs for a theatre, and coming back a few minutes later, after dropping off my bags, I passed a large, squarish building, with British and Welsh flags flying outside it. I took it, at first, to be the same.
There was even a small queue of people outside what I imagined was the box office, a small hut-like structure at the front. Nearly all of them seemed to be women, in their twenties and thirties, of working-class appearance, some of them with children. I looked around to see if I could see any advertising posters to tell me what act had attracted their interest. After I had looked in vain for a short time it occurred to me that this was because the building was, in fact, Swansea Prison.