Curious aerials and transmitters populate the murky Horsingdon skyline, many of which appear to be without function, or are otherwise a hangover from the early Cold War period when the Ministry of Defense apparently established a number of listening posts in and around Horsingdon. If true, their purpose for doing so remains - like so much else about the region - vague and unclear.
That the landscape hereabouts is possessed of its own signal is, for most inhabitants of the Horsingdon Triangle, a given; but exactly what is being broadcast, and why, is a mystery. For my part, the soft static fry which laps gently at the borders of consciousness each night, like the comforting purr of a telephone bereft of its receiver, speaks of the insensate sound of a universe in which no-one and nothing is listening anymore.
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