“I’m going to be a Leamming!” Emmy announced with a little clap of her hands.

The corners of Charlie’s mouth curled upwards. “Leamingtonian, Emmy. We’re Leamingtonians” she said condescendingly.


Whatever. Emmy had recently made the decision, based on changing life circumstances, to move from her rented house in Warwick and begin living in Leamington. The cobbled streets of Warwick would always be held close to her heart, after a couple of years residing within them, but the regency whitewash of its neighbouring town were calling. Calling her to make a fresh start. To become one of those envied people who strolled out into town to take dinner in one of Leamington’s plentiful restaurants and ambled home again without needing to mount wheels or rail tracks. To become one of those who stepped out of the shower on a chilly autumn morning and stepped over the threshold of an uplifting, bustling, warming coffee shop just 15 minutes later, instantly feeling in the company of others. Part of the community. A local.

Yes, being a Leamming was going to suit Emmy nicely.

“Royal Leamington Spa” she said with exaggeration.

The corners of Charlie’s mouth took a sudden tumble in the opposite direction.

“…and I, on the other hand, have to move to London. I can’t believe I’m leaving Leam” she said morosely.

Emmy really did pity her. She could tell, even before moving to Leamington, that it was lined with the kind of honey that trapped you – in the most peaceful, demure way – making the idea of leaving seem downright absurd. Now you’re in Leamington, why on Earth would you want to live anywhere else?