Speaking of: Margaret addresses a group of people about the power station, glass of champagne in her hand, talking about the "radical redevelopments" she's sanctioned. Somebody flashes a picture, and she gets all Orlando Furioso in the dude's face: "What did I say? Take pictures of the project by all means, but not me, thank you." Behind her there's a sign that reads, "Blaidd Drwg," and "drwg" means "bad," so I think we can assume we've found the Bad Wolf for this week. (Excellent question. Approximately: "Blythe" like Apple's grandmummy, "Droog" like Clockwork Orange. "D" as in "dead," "DD" is "th" like in leather, "W" is a vowel, "Y" is a word.) Margaret gets it together and smiles, saying that Cardiff Castle will be demolished for the construction. "A monument to Welsh industry...and yes, some of you might shiver, the words 'nuclear power station' and 'major population center' aren't exactly the happiest of bedfellows, but I give you my personal guarantee that as long as I walk upon this earth, no harm will come to any of my citizens." That's very old story, that kind of promise. She leads the group in a toast "to the future!" and promises them that the future "will glow." She's just really very awesome, basically, with the dark foreboding and the faces and the general steel magnolia vibe.

There's a bit of applause and then mingling. A reporter, Cathy Salt, hurries over to Margaret with her teeth right up in your face, asking for an interview. Margaret begs off, saying that she "can't bear self publicity," but Cathy nails her down: "Are you aware of the curse?" The smile on Margaret's face could cure meat overnight: "Whatever do you mean?" She means that, when you look at how many people have died in association with Blaidd Drwg, it starts getting weird. Of course, Margaret's got an answer for them all: The team of French safety inspectors couldn't read the Welsh for "Danger! Explosives!"; the Cardiff Heritage Committee were electrocuted in a swimming pool thanks to "natural wear and tear," the architect strayed before Margaret's car on a rainy day, and Mr. Cleaver "slipped on an icy patch." Cathy: "He was decapitated." Margaret: "It was a very icy patch." Margaret dismisses the conspiracy talk as "typical small-town thinking" and makes to leave, but Cathy blocks her again, and stupidly tells her that Cleaver posted some of his findings online before the icy patch decapitation. I bet you five dollars the password was "buffalo," if only because of his resentment toward Margaret's interfering. Cathy starts in that the reactor in particular caused him heartburn, and Margaret giggles in that way she has, about "oh, the technical stuff." Cathy drops some knowledge on her: "Specifically, that the design of the suppression pool would cause the hydrogen recombiners to fail, precipitating a collapse in the containment isolation system, resulting in a meltdown." Margaret gets up in Cathy's face as the journalist reminds the Mayor that -- at least in the twenty-first century -- it's her job to do her homework. Margaret asks Cathy for a private word. So long, Cathy. So long, Cathy's teeth.