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Arts | By Roger Lewis

I'm afraid to leave the house. If television drama is to be believed, there’s a serial killer lurking in every town and village – and I live in Rochester, which is replete with spooky alleys and misty corners. But switch on the box and there’ll be forensic teams in white paper suits and blue plastic gloves probing skeletons in cellars. Offices are filled with purposeful people writing in felt pen on whiteboards – I understand blackboards were abolished as politically incorrect. ‘It’s not right. We’ve missed something,’ they say to each other. When someone has an original or intelligent thought, their burly boss will say, ‘It’s clouding your judgement, the guilt.’