According to brochures, Sherborne in Dorset is "a small, historic market town boasting a vibrant culture and prestigious schools". To the over-60s and commuting city workers who dump their kids in its private schools, this may well be the case.
For everyone else here, it's a swept-under-the-rug existence. The buses shuttle in the grey tourism to see the historic Abbey, or to eat sticky toffee pudding, which keeps the coffers brimming with second-hand pension money. You get the feeling that those who run the town aren't too keen on the idea of the olds seeing us and spoiling the scenic views.
The wealth divide here is pretty stark. A street of houses worth just short of a million each, with lavish furnishings and high-end motors on the drive, have their huge gardens backing onto rows of terraced council housing.
There are two or three months of summer every year, though, when everyone can enjoy the beautiful countryside, get mashed in it and fuck and fight each other in it. But then it's back to being wet and feeling miserable.
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