There can’t be a Brit that hasn’t heard of Coronation Street. As a child I was brought up on Corrie. When I met Mr V he asked, ‘You don’t watch that rubbish do you?’ ‘Moi?’ I asked, eyes very wide, ‘Good heavens no. Absolute drivel.’
In fact I couldn’t wait for half past seven on a Monday, Wednesday and a Friday. I adored this soap opera. Would Bett Lynch divorce Alec Gilroy? Would Rita Fairclough ever find love again? I am reliably informed that she did and is now known as Rita Tanner. Apparently her name changed several times in between. Rita might be knocking eighty, but she’s clearly a goer who has been round The Kabin’s block a few times. Needless to say, I no longer watch the box. And Mr V is now an avid fan of Coronation Street.
However, who needs to tune in to a soap opera when there has been one unfolding right on my own doorstep?
A couple of weeks ago there was a murder. Right outside the village’s twee country pub with its frothy hanging baskets, cosy beams and lamplight. Hundreds of floral tributes are still tucked into the hedgerows that border the narrow lane. Shocked villagers put their hands to their mouths and whispered, ‘Things like that don’t happen here.’ And then earlier on this week, whilst walking my pooch with a fellow dog walker, my friend told me that the windows of her husband’s car had been smashed to smithereens overnight.It has since transpired that two men have been arrested in connection with the murder. Likewise regarding the car vandalism. Regarding the latter, lads were driving around with a massive homemade catapult randomly firing large stones at cars, houses and even people. It begs the question why? Boredom? Fun? Born with a brain the size of a pea? Oh sorry, I mean no brain at all (can’t insult peas).
Folk in my village aren’t used to horror. The most outrageous thing to have happened in the last twelve months was somebody swiping the church’s lychgate. Heaven knows why (no pun intended).
Hopefully village life will get back on an even keel without any more nasty incidences. If not, instead of typing novels, I might be pitching a new soap opera to the Beeb.
Which reminds me. Why are men are like soap operas? Because they’re wonderful to watch but you mustn’t believe everything they say...