My sideburns have been trimmed, the grey and brown cuttings held, like a Victorian keepsake, in an inlaid wooden box. I had not made a decision to cut them nor was I wholeheartedly set on the path of continuing to grow them until I reached Whitstable. I was, I admit, beginning to appear much like a Dickensian character, a look that was beginning to attract curious looks in the street. Not that this was worrying me overmuch in a town where many people are positively mediaeval in their demeanor. Nevertheless in an act of characteristic certainty my companion took matters into her own hands and I have been shorn. Now I am myself certain of my path. I intend to sculpt my sideburns into near perfect replicas of Mr Cushing’s. I have only to decide which incarnation of Van Helsing to emulate.
