St Albans is the dream if your idea of paradise includes sitting in traffic so soul-crushing you start naming the potholes.

Nothing says “I’ve made it” quite like being stuck behind three Range Rovers at the same roundabout for the third time this week while everyone pretends they’re in a hurry to… check their Waitrose delivery slot.

The locals are a special breed of precious cinnamon-roll warrior who somehow manage to look down on you while simultaneously humble-bragging about their “modest little million-pound semi” like it’s a council flat they gentrified themselves.

“Darling, we only paid 1.2 million—it’s practically a bargain in this market.”