A friend of mine lives in a hamlet of about twelve houses somewhere in the East Midlands. Most of the properties are period conversions. There is one larger house which was built in the 70s. With its seven bedrooms, electric gates and swimming pool, it's the kind of place a middling Premiership player might have found appealing.
The neighbours recently noted that it had been taken over by some burly gentlemen who seemed to be Eastern European. Then they began to see an influx of blonde girls in short skirts and high heels.
Not surprisingly, the neighbours gathered and pooled their information. It turned out that there was also a website advertising the services being offered at this very property and drop-down menus that enabled potential clients to choose the girl they would like to see dispensing them.
Clearly they are taking steps.
But here's what I wonder. How come we are expected to believe in the quite congenial, and shamelessly fictional life portrayed by Billie Piper in The Secret Diary of A Call Girl and yet if I were to propose a story based around events actually taking place in one genuine English village in 2007 to the writers of The Archers I would probably be accused of taking liberties?