Town of Flowers

Shrewsbury - birthplace of Charles Darwin, home of 80s pop group T'Pau, town of flowers - became the scene of a murder probe Sunday morning when the bodies of two women were found in what police believe to be a massage parlour.

Since their discovery, the murder, as you might imagine, has been talk of the town. In talking about it, townsfolk - on three separate occasions - have asked of my whereabout Saturday night. This was mildly funny the first time. It then dawned on me that the question assumes two things: that I might a) frequent a "massage parlour", and b), perhaps more alarmingly, actually murder someone.

Also worrying is the fact that I don't have a great alibi. I, like most of the nation, watched Rooney stamp on Carvalho's balls Saturday but then left a house party early to travel from Wolverhampton back to Shrewsbury, with enough time to run a bath, have a sandwich and watch Big Brother. Probably enough time to knock out a couple of hookers.

It doesn't help that I often include the building suspected to be a massage parlour in my town tour to visitors, alluding to them the fact that I know of its place and purpose (though no more than it's blacked out windows and closed sign).

It probably works against me that I am like one of two people of colour living in the town centre. If a brown face was caught on CCTV I've a 50/50 chance of being interviewed. And I don't do well under that kind of pressure. I can't even stop from sweating when airport security ask if I packed my own bags.

However conspicuous at least I wasn't sporting ridiculous head gear Saturday night (for once). Apparently police are looking to interview a man who stayed late at a nearby pub, wearing a purple bandana and having taken part in a "pirate re-enactment."

A pirate re-enactment? A massage parlour? A murder? These things happen in Shrewsbury? This place is suddenly a lot more than a town of flowers.