As the newest reporter to join the SomersetClive team, I have been asked to write a piece about life in Smalltown.
Once upon a time in forgettable Smalltown, nestled snugly between rolling hills, endless fields and the sea, there existed a population so unremarkable that even their shadows lacked distinction. Each day unfolded with the predictability of a tired yawn, as the townsfolk trudged through their mundane routines with all the enthusiasm of wilted flowers.
Smalltown’s main attraction was an empty White Elephant Enclosure in the centre of the town, where pigeons and seagulls congregated to discuss the day’s most pressing matters: crumbs and mild weather. Occasionally, a passing traveller would stop, glance around with a perplexed expression as they wondered what the building was for, and then promptly resume their journey, leaving behind nothing but a trail of dust and indifference.
The local gossip was as bland as boiled potatoes, revolving around such scintillating topics as Mrs Grimes’ new knitting project or the mysterious disappearance of old Mr Mower’s favorite gardening trowel, or whether or not the main road was actually closed or if someone at the Council had merely forgotten to remove the signs. But even these whispers failed to inject any semblance of excitement into the town’s lethargic atmosphere.
And so, life trudged on in Smalltown, where days melted into weeks, and weeks into years, in a ceaseless cycle of monotony. For in a place where even the most ordinary occurrences seemed extraordinary by comparison, the truly extraordinary became but a distant dream, whispered in hushed tones beneath the faded glow of a red sunset.