It’s a commonly held notion that Morrowvillians (important: note the spelling) are all in the know of a particularly arch joke about one other, held in contempt of an unforgiving court of poorly executed spectacle.

In short, we’re a miserable and unforgiving bunch.

“Don’t cross us, we won’t cross you,” is the message written in the cracks and up in the sky (especially during Summer months when tourism is higher along its beaches, which are replete with skywriters and banner-pullers, and Morrowvale means it, with a vengeance. A young woman I know (well, now, once knew as she’s just informed me to redact her name from this article; shame as Jane would have liked the bio at the end.) Anyway Jane, erm, the unnamed person arrived on this fair isle in 1979 — well, the year, she informs me is not important, and neither is her age, which appropriate to the story, also ends in “–62”. Anyway, this youngish woman was attempting to obtain a Morrowvale identification card from the Council once she’d arrived, as she’d lost her British one and just didn’t feel like going back to London for it since she was thinking of setting up a shop here. You don’t really need to know that, it just helps underline that business here in Morrowvale is THRIVING, and what proves that better than someone choosing to set up a brand new business here? Yes, precisely that.

The lady at the Council behind the desk asked “Jane” her name, and she said, “If I tell you, will you please stop staring at my baby?” Oh yes, did I mention that my friend had her one-year old child with her in a stroller? Anyway, the lady from the Council replied, “We don’t charge by the freak, only by the head.” Anyway, that woman has since been let go on account of multiple subsequent incidents and is in no way meant to appear to be a typical part of the cross-section of Morrowvale — except to prove that you shouldn’t throw stones at spouses in glasses.