So we finally found out – it was the policewoman’s husband wot dunnit.
The finger of suspicion had pointed at so many secret weirdo Broadchurch villagers each week that Ladbroke’s the bookies were accepting Who Killed Danny Latimer bets right up to the last episode.
This was a literal cliffhanger of a series – TV drama at its best, if you ignore the ridiculous scene in which dad of strangled boy got to shout through the cell door at the murderer (think he was 5-4) for five minutes.
After the climax, the killer is behind bars and there’s one less drama for the villagers of Broadchurch to contend with. For me too. I’m relieved. I’ve got my Monday nights back.
The ITV series, which starred the ever more brilliant Olivia Colman and David Tennant looking so delicate a sea breeze could have knocked him flat at any moment, was so gripping, it had me pinned to the sofa. In fact, what with a double bill of Corrie as the prequel, I’ve been good for nothing but telly after the first day back at work for two whole months.
Trouble is, I’m wearing a permanent indentation into the settee – Tuesday nights I can’t miss The Syndicate on BBC1 and on Sunday evenings I’m glued to The Village .
Derbyshire life then looks very different to the posh pub nosh and chocolate box holiday home county it is now. Did folk never get a day out to Buxton or so much as a whiff of Bakewell tart to cheer their bleak existence?
But all this top telly –I reckon it’s a conspiracy. TV programmers don’t have to try too hard in the winter, when we’ve nothing to do but draw the curtains and gawp at the goggle box. But once the clocks go back and warm, light spring nights beckon, they have to up the Auntie.
At this rate we’ll be lard by June. Just in time for the diet and fitness programmes.