One of the joys of living in a small town at the end of the line, where the road stops at the sea and no one passes through on the way to anywhere else, is that nothing much happens and it’s eminently peaceful. One of the downsides of living in such a place is that nothing much happens. Living dangerously means swimming when there are bluebottles and not writing the days of the week on your pill packets.
It wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but as it happens, I’ve had enough drama in my life
and this suits me perfectly. But it’s not exactly a rich seam of blog fodder.
‘Any murders today? Muggings? Mayhem? Dismemberment?’
‘Nah, sorry mate. Try Port.’