Tunbridge Wells it is then.

We moved into a twee town called Tunbridge Wells, which sits an hour south of London - the not so sleepy hollow where I wanted to live.  I like the idea of getting home, looking in the mirror and saying, ‘I’ve got a dusty nostril’. Who wouldn’t want to live in a town where you can pop ‘dusty nostril’ into conversation and it not be weird? Answer: My lady wife. Yep she was quick with an emphatic ‘no’ on that one. I tried discussing the matter but she has the vagina and that was that.  I did get close to convincing her but then the London riots hit our screen all during our son’s first proper cold. Tunbridge Wells it is then. The irony being now that I’m here it’s obvious that if ever a town needed a riot it’s Tunbridge Wells. It’s like living in a tea cosy. For the first time in my life I miss hookers and junkies. They provide towns with a dash of misery and violence that allows you to appreciate your intact skin. Unfortunately I’m pretty sure they’ve all been strangled here because they’re the first people to go when everything is a bit too nice. All it takes is someone only winning bronze in the local Bloom competition, they react by not cooking their 35 year old son dinner and boom! He’s out slashing skanks. So here I am, building a life that will support lady wife and boy son and the start hasn’t been bad but, I do miss my creatures of darkness. 

Photo by Lady Wife.