Petworth is a new port of call on my travels: a tiny place which obviously thinks very highly of itself. If I came back in a couple of weeks I could enjoy a literary festival - Anne Widdicombe, yay! - or a clarinet recital. Shops are called Artful Teasing, Guilt Lingerie and Hemming’s Wine Merchants, and all the antiques are ‘fine’. There’s a cobbled street, leading up to the church, lined with bijou art galleries.
If they heard on the news that the North of England had been immolated by a gigantic fireball, leaving no survivors north of the Trent, the good people of Petworth would raise a quizzical eyebrow, turn the page of their Daily Telegraph and pour themselves another cup of Earl Grey tea…
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