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