This is probably terribly patronising of me, big old city girl living it up in a crazy world surrounded by crazy people, talking about the life in the local village of my folks in deepest darkest Sussex. But provincial town gossip takes some beating....Turns out this little town is a veritable cauldron of violence.
My mum went for an eyelash tint today and, trying to find some sort of conversation while having her eyes glued together, started asking her beautician about the suspected arson attacks. Well, there have been ten, TEN! Even for someone from southwest London that's a lot! first a portaloo (cue my dad, upon hearing this story, exclaiming "the naughtiest thing I've ever done with a portaloo...." enough, father, enough), then someone's garden shed and all sorts of buildings, animals and probably grandmothers in between. The police suspect the local crazy who walks around in a dressing gown and lives in one of the grandest houses in town albeit without electricity or heating, who has taken in a few "vagrants" who have since set his grand old home on fire. Then there's the assault that's turned into a rape accusation, then the beautician exclaimed "and did you hear about the woman whose fingers were bitten off?"
Yup, some dear old biddie leafleting for the local dogs trust thought it best to really make sure her junk mail made it through the door of an unsuspecting parishioner by thrusting her fingers right through the letterbox, whereupon they were savaged by the dog inside, probably a jack russell (horrid little rabid things). One finger was ripped from its knuckle, the other later amputated. Lovely.
Beats listening to the Archers.
Ah, provinciality, the backbone of Britain. What exactly is the Lalaland equivalent?
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