Life is full of these little events that mean a whole hell of a lot to you and that are completely irrelevant to everyone else.
There's this thing called Eisteddfod. Unless you are from here, you probably don't really care enough to even go to the trouble to pronounce it properly.
At this thing called Eisteddfod, they have all sorts of competitions for Welshy types, one of which is for Welsh Learner of the Year. People will reward your years of learning with £300 and a wooden plate if you can meet some sort of undefined criteria that makes you the Welshiest of Welsh learners.
It's a prize that is wholly irrelevant to the overwhelming majority of the earth's population. But then there's me. I've been making myself sick over the last week or so thinking about my attempt to make it to the final round of the Welsh Learner of the Year award.
On Saturday, a list of 15 people was reduced to four who will go on to compete for the title in August. Because of the several thousand miles of land and water separating me from Swansea, my interview was held over the phone. Because of the several time zones separating me from Swansea, my interview was held at 6:20 a.m.
I was so gunned up after the interview that I went on a 30-mile bike ride. When I got back, there was a voice mail message for me from one of the organizers of the Eisteddfod: "Chris, mae'n flin 'da fi..."
So, I'm out.
It's one less thing to worry about, I suppose.