All the Welshmen I know seem to be called Taffy or Dai: it doesn't really matter as each is a diminutive of David. And that's the whole point about Taffy - he didn't mind being called Dai, or anything else. He just didn't mind.

He didn't get ruffled or annoyed or upset. He felt that life was to be lived at a dignified - no, not a dignified, but a casual - pace. He never set out to upset others, and he couldn't understand why his actions sometimes offended. True, he wasn't always thoughtful; calls at mealtimes and other inconvenient moments were not exactly unusual, but to his eternal credit he never minded being hustled out, albeit with something more than a light hint.

It was thus a shock to all when he joined the Services. How would he cope with the rigorous time demands made on him? Or to put it another way, how would the Royal Navy cope with this casual approach? Would the captain be biting his fingernails while Taffy was sipping his tea in the shore NAAFI?

Taffy did have virtues, too. He had a phenomenal memory for numbers. He could remember numbers for days - numbers of some length, too. I am convinced he had the talent to develop as a 'Calculating Genius' or a 'Memory Man' with money from stage appearances, only of course that would have meant organising his time, and that was completely out of character.

He liked girls. He enjoyed their company. He wasn't a wolf in sheep's clothing, he was too nice, too uncomplicated for that. Girls enjoyed his company, too; many might have wished him more serious and responsible in attitude, but their wishes died without maturing.

I remember being with him at Cardiff during a fortnight's leave when we were chatting to a couple of girls - very proper and nicely brought up, too. Mary, a nice blonde, actually volunteered him her telephone number without being asked: I wonder how many men (certainly not I!) achieve that? Anyway, she was going away for a few days and suggested that he phone her any time after Sunday.

Life, however, isn't that predictable. Taffy was a good mechanic in the Navy's Fleet Air Arm (even if he didn't hurry). And whatever Argentina thought about the Falklands, she didn't really think of Taffy's uncompleted leave. A telegram arrived ordering Taffy to report back early on Monday morning. To Culdrose, via Penzance. Which meant Sunday night travel.

It was quite clear to Taffy (although I couldn't say he was worried about it) that he was destined for the South Atlantic, and the Navy couldn't do without him. So he packed his kit, and took all the things that were needed for a longish spell of duty. Well, if not all the things, all that he could think of.

He caught the 10.35 pm from Cardiff. He mightn't have caught it had it been on time. But it wasn't. And it didn't matter as these night trains have long stops at stations, so that five minutes here and there aren't really important. A short read of some Sunday papers left around, a few cigarettes and a leisurely chat with a couple of naval ratings going to Devonport. Newport and the Severn Tunnel passed and Taffy was getting thirsty as they drew into Bristol.

Temple Meads, like Crewe, is good for a cup of tea at any time of the day or night. The refreshment room proved equal to his demands; the brew was good and hot, they had some of his favourite chocolate biscuits, and there were a few free chairs. He sat down to enjoy his tea and biscuits. Not back in the train, but in the refreshment room.

So when he had finished his tea and returned to the westbound platform, the train was already threading its way out of the city towards North Somerset.

Nothing flapped. Nothing disturbed the patience of other travellers strolling around killing time. After all, there was bound to be another train sooner or later.

It happened sooner.

In less than an hour, the London Penzance train stopped. Taffy caught it, with the absolute confidence that the sailors would have put his kit off at Plymouth where the Cardiff train terminated. After all, you don't actually lose your kit when reporting for embarkation any more than you lose your luggage on honeymoon. You perhaps lose sight of it for a short while.

Sure enough, on arrival at Plymouth, Taffy ventured forth to the stationmaster's office. Yes, there it was. The stationmaster tried to tell him that he was lucky - but Taffy couldn't see things that way at all. He got back into the train with his belongings.

Not quite all his belongings, though. Sitting there for ten minutes, he remembered that he had tucked his ticket into a cigarette packet for safety. And when he had finished his cigarettes, he'd left the packet in the last compartment. You or I would have dashed along the train to find it.

Not Taffy. He ambled along the train right to the back, but couldn't find it. So he returned to his luggage. Not quite to his luggage, though.

You see, while he was searching the back of the train, the front four coaches were uncoupled and that part of the train was probably somewhere on the Royal Albert Bridge over the Tamar.

So Taffy had succeeded in losing his luggage twice and his ticket once on a single journey. It wasn't quite the end of the story.

He suddenly remembered the girl he'd chatted up when he was with me, and she'd said phone any time after Sunday. I heard her say it, but I doubt if she really included 5.13 am on Monday morning in her interpretation of 'any time'. He needed a telephone box, but to get one, he had to pass the barrier. Not having a ticket didn't worry him. He merely explained to the ticket collector that he had lost his ticket on the train, and that he wanted to phone a girl.

The ticket collector wasn't impressed. Well, he might have been impressed by the story, but he certainly wasn't going to believe it and let Taffy through.

"Oh, yes," he said, with more than a touch of sarcasm. "And I suppose you can tell me the number?" He meant the phone number, but the sarcasm went unnoticed by Taffy.

"Number 87304, bought at Cardiff," he replied.

At that very moment, the train cleaner arrived and handed to the collector a ticket found while checking the back carriages. It was a single from Cardiff, number 87304. It was Taffy's ticket.

Disbelief was writ large on the collector's face. Eventually he composed himself to say "Go and make your phone call, laddie". And then he added "and your kit will be at Penzance, because even for you, the train won't go any further".

Taffy made his phone call. I don't know exactly how she answered, but he was pleased when he informed the collector that she'd told him to ring again when he got back from the South Atlantic.

Taffy would come back. He is a survivor. But whether he and his luggage both got onto the right transport would be uncertain to say the least.

And I hope for Mary's sake, he gets back in the daytime.