It was a quiet village, nothing much ever happened there. The sun rose and set over the same wattle and daub houses, the gardens remained immaculately trimmed. There were rarely children to make noise and never the ill mannered kind who would be badly behaved. It was a small bubble, immune to change. The locals were proud that their home was so static. This pride was the reason for the ‘comical’ sign on the bridge into the village which said; nothing that’s worth a tale will ever happen here. Sadly though, for me, that’s the truth.