One quiet night in Deloraine.
Back in the days when I was still safely married and living in the country (OMG, I am beginning to feel like Duckie in NCIS, always recollecting the past! I promise I will try to get a life really soon) my husband brought home a Swedish hitchhiker and apologised that the place was rather quiet.
We did hear that there was going to be music down at the pub, so we thought we might take him there.
Just when things were rocking along quite nicely, the police arrived and said that they had had a report that there was a bomb on the premises and we all had to wait outside on the street while they did a search.
The band played on valiantly out on the nature strip and every now and then some brave soul would risk life and limb to go back into the pub for another jug of beer.
Not long after we were allowed back into the pub, there was a new drama. An irate husband with a shotgun was engaged in a standoff with the police on the bridge. Not sure how that one turned out, though we could hear shots being fired just down the road. Wearily, we walked back home. Then, just as we were going to bed, the brakes on a neighbour's car failed and his car careened down the hill into our truck. It made a very loud bang.
Our Swedish friend was astounded and thoughtful. "This quiet Deloraine," he said. "What do you call exciting?" After that - at least until we moved to the Wild West, we had a steady stream of visitors from an obscure town in Sweden all looking for a quiet night in Deloraine. I hope they weren't too disappointed. The scenery is lovely.