Bathroom Reading

My ongoing researches into blood drinking practices has lead me to the door of a strange group of people called the sanguinarians. These for the most part peaceful folk are (according to message boards on various websites) made up of true vampires and non-vampires who merely enjoy the taste of human blood. I observed one fascinating conversation in which the subject of the value of drinking one's own blood was hotly contested.

In my bathroom Christopher Lee's autobiography is nearing it's end. While I lie in my bath he talks to me of his greatest friends and the stories surrounding them. He speaks lovingly of Peter Cushing of course but also of John Gielgud's barely disguised lust for Charlton Heston; of Boris Karlof who lived next door; of Bela Lugosi who asked to be buried in his cloak and of H.P Lovecraft who never went out during daylight. My companion tells me there was a man in Aldeburgh who also remained permanently indoors during the day and when he died was buried at night.

In my toilet both Mr Frayling and Mr Copper's lay splayed like dead bats. I have finished with them. Only the illustrations interest me now. This one hurriedly recorded reminds me of my companion both in looks and attitude. Though the identity of the vampiric woman and mustachioed man elude me.






-- posted abroad