Home Sweet Slough
After Mrs RWN and I had been courting for some time, we decided that the time had come for us to move in together. At that time I was renting a miniscule flat in central London while she owned a slightly less miniscule flat in sunny Slough, where she was working at the time. It made sense for me to move to Slough, which if nothing else proved the strength of my feelings for her.

We lived there for about eighteen months, during which my feelings about Slough changed -- where previously I had thought of it as just a drab craphole, with time I came to regard it as a drab craphole full of chavs and various groups who'd happily knife you for the price of a bag of crisps.

We knew the time had come to leave when one day while sitting in the front room watching telly, we noticed a bit of a commotion going on outside. We looked out the window to see the street full of police vans, ambulances, and among the various ranks of plod, a whole team done up in those white plastic all-in-one suits. The occasion, it seemed, had something to do with the trail of blood leading from the basement of the flats opposite, around the side of the building and into the car-park behind. It was all over the steps up from the basement flat, across the ground and smeared up the walls too.

Press coverage was surprisngly (although tellingly, I think) scant but we eventually learned to our complete non-surprise that it had something to do with a drugs deal.

Within three months, we'd sold up and moved somewhere less shit.

Slough: yes, it's just as bad as you think it is.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 10:40, 1 reply)

Yay!
Have an I-grew-up-in-Slough click.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:24, closed)