As I spent my childhood, from 1965 to 1974 about half a mile down the road from Broadmoor hospital,
and heard the sirens going off every Monday at 10 am, and . . .
In about 1967, when my sister was about 2 we lived in a flat on the first floor of a converted big house, which had a large, shared garden.
One day my Mum was doing something or other round the house, and had left my sister making mud pies in a flowerbed outside.
She looked out of the windows to see if my sister was OK, and saw her and an adult in a sort of nightshirt playing together in the mud.
The adult was a chap who had escaped from Broadmoor . . .
I think that the appeal of staying in a hotel slap-bang next to that loony-bin leaves me a bit cold.