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  1. In Unst, any reliance on 'lovely' or 'super' in descriptive narrative is hackneyed superficial gush. Unst people only use adjectives to describe something that is dead, lost or stolen. We used to have a policeman. He was a lovely guy. People still play badminton. The badminton scene is the only scene and it has always been a thriving scene. Whoever and whatever you are.. on Thursday evenings you are free to strut your stuff in badminton shorts. The serial killer probably enjoys Badminton. The population has reached a critical point where it cannot sustain a Masonic Lodge. The Unst Councillor punches above his weight, the schools close and children get rickets. Most children would prefer to be in an orphanage than a happy family unit. At least they would get a wifi connection. They could post smileys and super selfies like everybody else. Aww.
  2. They are indeed a picture of misery and gloom Bluevac, for many reasons; With even the slightest change in ferry timetables they are forced to eat cormorants. Excessive consumption of salted cormorants over prolonged winters has been linked to rickets in children and diabetes in rats. Rickety children and diabetic rats is the stark reality faced by Unst folks in austere times. The parents of the rickety children are also fighting to save the last surviving school and the last surviving Talc quarry on the island to secure a future for the community. Both are riddled with asbestos. A council survey recently concluded that 76% of Unst people can't even spell 'community' without the help of Google, Another council survey concluded that 76% of Unst people can' access Google without installing Satellite Broadband. That same 76% also failed to spell 'Satellite' within seven attempts. A greater number of Unst people carry a smouldering anger, frustration and paranoia against the world of inanimate objects and failing electronic devices. They punch plasterboard walls regularly to vent their rage. Their houses are well vented too and the rats get in. There is also a suspected serial killer at large. The population has dropped from 1100 to 500 in twenty years and Police have found no leads. The Policeman disappeared too in 2001. The last job on the island is also under threat of automation since the Waterboard decided not to replace the technician who regulated the fluoride and chlorine levels in the Island's water supply. A lost generation of rickety children had their education tailored for this post and were groomed for the position. They are probably qualified to run a bath or operate anything wth two taps. Their only other skill set would be fishing a dead horse from a loch if required. 76% of that lost generation couldn't spell 'maintenance' or 'technician'. That was their happy lot. No longer. Lastly, following two decades of exposure to the noise pollution of oil traffic they suffer from P.F.T., a Pitch Fluctuating variant of Tinnitus which rings like a constant National Anthem of 'God Save the Queen' in their ears giving them an aloofness and reverent countenance that could be misinterpreted as a dismissive stiffness of character. In sadder times now, the skies are no longer a choppity-chug of helicopters; the toxic talc quarries are no longer a thud of dynamite and diesel water-pumps; the wax-buffed school floors are no longer a-squeak or a scurry of plimsoled feet running to the clangity-clang of a janitor's bell and 76% of Unst people can't spell 'marmalade'. In Unst they call it 'orange jam'.
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