Once upon a time in a place that was neither here nor there, there existed a rather unremarkable village. This village was so ordinary that it had no name. For nothing of no had ever happened there. And it seemed unlikely that anything had been born. In this utterly unexciting village, there lived a rather ordinary fan. Mr. and Mrs. Dolington and their two children and an Arthur. They lived in a perfectly standard house, painted in a shade of beige that could only be described as beige. Each day this village was predictably dull. The sun rose at precisely the same time as it did the day before. Casting a predictably blind light, a tunnel and light. The towns spoke one about their mundane tasks with an almost impressive lack of enthusiasm. The dolington had a pet, a cat named Fluffy. Fluffy was unsurprising. White Fluffy. And she spent her days doing precisely what one might expect a cat to do. Nappin' the sun, chase an occasional dust-mote and produce spur-long, daily signs. One day the dolington decided to take a walk around the village. They strolled along the only road in the village, which was lined with houses that all looked remarkably similar. They needed their neighbors with polite nods and exchanged pleasantries that were, you guessed it. Out of the ordinary, they walked, they didn't want to cross the park. They should have been, as soon as they fit in a tree. The bench was made of wood. The swings that had two swings and the tree was, well, a tree. The family decided to sit on the bench for a while, where they engaged in a conversation. That would be best described as murder in my name. The end of the day, the day was a bit of a reminder. The upcoming village baked sale, expected an event. And Fluffy's recent growing habits, as you might have guessed, unexciting. After a period of time, that could be accurate measures. Well, nothing really happened. The dolington decided to start a murder. They did so by retracing their steps along the same path they had taken earlier. When they arrived back at their base house, they engaged in their night and two, which involved preparing a meal that was both balanced and boring. Followed by some light reading from a book that could only be described as not particularly engaging. As the evening wore on, they retired to their equally unimpressive bedrooms, where they drifted in were so unavailable that even their dreams were, you guessed it, decidedly don't. And so in this village that was not worth mentioning, in a house that was nothing to write home about. The dolington's lived a life that was entirely and thoroughly unimpressive. Good night.