The thing about Norfolk – and most of East Anglia, too – is, right, that nothing ever happens here, for the most part. For years and years on end, the local papers are full of “Cat stuck up tree” and “Cat rescued from tree” and “Old lady has hilarious mishap” type stories. But then every now and again something like these Ipswich murders (okay, not Norfolk, I know) happens and reminds us that whilst big cities like Manchester can breed your everyday muggers and criminals, to breed a proper serial-killer/psychopath you need the kind of years of careful inbreeding and lack of exposure to society that only the empty, boring landscapes East Anglia can provide.

Anyway, it seems I’ve brought a little bit of Manchester with me because as I was crossing the border into Norfolk yesterday, some chavs were stabbing a security guard in HMV in Norwich. Well, I kind of understand; the new Castlefield Mall is an offensively bland piece of nowhere-generica shopping evil and it’s enough to drive anyone insane. Norwich is a lovely city, being gradually spoiled by its transformation into a “fashionable urban centre”, or somesuch.

Anyway, my parents’ village is sufficiently tiny as to only support one serial killer every couple of hundred years (broadly because there’d be no-one left if they came round more often) so I figure I’m probably safe here for the moment. Probably.

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