These past couple of days I've become more than a little fixated on the serial killer, Reginald Christie, and his place of abode at 10 Rillington Place, Notting Hill. I've been researching the subject a lot on the net over the past two nights (and discovering a few odd facts in the process, like the assertion that nobody is quite sure where Rilllington Place was. Surely, all you need is an old A-Z and there it is, isn't it? What am I missing?)
But anyway, the fact is that stories about serial killers and miscarriages of justice aren't very nice, and yet the story fascinates and consumes on the one hand, while simultaneously depressing me on the other. And that isn't conducive to the making of blog posts, unless you count this one.
What worries me slightly, however, is that my fascination with this story began some decades ago when I first saw the 1971 film 10 Rillington Place. The location was eerily familiar, and I only discovered tonight that the exteriors were filmed in the actual street shortly before it was demolished. So now I'm wondering just what it is I might be remembering.