My companion has just sold several paintings to a werewolf called Russell Tovey.
In fact I am beginning to think I am surrounded by supernatural beings. Not least of these is my upstairs neighbour whose nocturnal habits of singing along to unending powerballads late into the night are getting beyond a joke. Her midnight movements are always concluded early the next morning by some sort of ritual which involves dragging a heavy weight across the floor above my head. Tonight, while I listen to a chanteuse who I am reliably informed is called Mariah Carey I am reading segments from Professor Sir Christopher Frayling’s “Vampyres”. He begins by describing to role of indigestion in the creation of fantastical literature. This is something I have an affinity with as my stomach is habitually somewhat dyspeptic. My own affliction is, however, not caused by eating raw meat but more usually by: travel, irregular dining or Dutch lager. Having avoided all three tonight I am enjoying a bed time snack of peanut butter. My Companion and I have just returned from viewing yet another vampire film at the local picture house. The film did nothing to dispel my idea that vampires are essentially quite boring creatures. Perhaps werewolves are more interesting
