Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today, I'm standing on Love's Walk in Hyde Park, W2.

One street west of the last sighting alive of Ruby Bolton,

a short walk southwest of the last night of fun by the bloody butler,

one gate down from the suicide and murder of the former lovers Julia Mangon and Robert Williams.

And in another odd mirror of both tragic cases, the death pact of a couple who failed to see.

Coming soon to murder mile.

As an ill-defined bridal way off the main walkway around the eastern edge of Hyde Park,

it's strange that a place so littered with death is still called lover's walk.

And yet this is where they stroll.

You'll see all types of couples here, whether it's the old ones sweetly holding hands, the young ones suck in face, the new ones bonking and banging

their bits together, like they'll win a prize if they erase each other's genitals.

And then there's the ones, with the Sproggs, who look as ravaged as a Guantanamo Bay prisoner.

Having been waterboarded by urine, tortured by a tiny tot with lungs like a pig with piles,

and imprisoned in a pepper pig covered hell,

they'll confess to literally anything,

in return for a five-minute nap,

a half-pint with a pal,

and a conversation which doesn't involve stains, fluids, or orifices.

For love to last, it needs to be built on a strong foundation of trust, time and friendship.

Sadly, too many loves are doomed to failure as being too hasty to believe that they've met the one,

and fearing that if they don't get hitched this second, that their lover for life will leave them forever.

...