Having a Wild Time?

No vampire pun intended, but sometimes life sucks.

For all the superpowers and mysterious abilities, a vampire still gets the lurgy. The past week or so, I’ve felt like death warmed up. Or, more likely, like Keith Richards warmed up. Yup, I’ve been ill. I hate it. It makes me feel so… human. I don’t appreciate feeling so vulnerable. I’ve had the ‘non-existent’ temperature, while folks have been complimenting me on my ‘sparkling eyes’. They’re not sparkling, people, they’re steaming.

Actually, I’m glad I’m not one of those throat-bitey types. I mean, the movies portray getting bitten as some dark, mysterious, sensual thing. Not so much if the biter in question is a non-stop snot machine who has to pause mid-munch because they can’t breathe through their nose. Now there’s a sight Hollywood hasn’t considered. Dracula never coughed his lungs up on anyone. Ever.

So the past few days, I’ve been hitting the propolis, a waxy substance made by bees that acts as an anti-pretty-much-everything. The Workers make it to feed the Queen Bee healthy. You may have heard of the ‘bees’ knees’, but I bet you’ve never heard of a bee sneeze. Think about it…

May I also recommend steam inhalation with essential oils? I’ve been alive long enough to see this fall in and out of fashion a number of times. I use Rosemary, to clear the nose; Wild Thyme to stave off the asthma – but be careful when you buy this. Going into a shop and announcing that you’re looking for a Wild Thyme could get you into all sorts of trouble. I also add a few drops of Clary Sage at night. This stuff will knock even a bull elephant out. If I’m going to be coughing, I’d rather be asleep when it happens…

Oh, and lots and lots of hot drinks. Chief among these is a slice each of lemon and ginger in boiling water. Leave it for 5 minutes and then sweeten with manuka honey. Your best bet is anything factored over +12. Anything below that is just maintenance.

And then it’s just time. What else have I got, but time? I mean, even with advanced healing, it still means I’m mooching around like an extra from the Walking Dead for a few days. And if I had a pound for every person who’s said I should re-record my answer machine message while I still sound like this, I’d have £6.50 (I stopped the 7th one with a hard stare).

Hopefully, normal service will be resumed. Until then, I’m going to be a steam-guzzling, juice-swilling, husky-voiced little ball of snot. Thank you and goodnight.

 

 


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Discreetly discrete

Sorry I cut and run last week.  Turns out it was just the postman delivering a fruit knife. Panic over. Discretion is the better part of valour? It’s definitely the safest. I don’t like advertising what I am too much. I also hate to follow the crowd. So, as a result I love designing and making my own clothes. While my personal style does embrace goth quite readily – it’s mostly my love of dark colours (thanks to having a black school uniform), jewel colours (because I’m fair) and all thing lacy and frippery-ry (because of my fascination with historical fashion).

I had my ‘colours’ done one time. Turns out seasons mean nothing when you’re very blonde.  I was drawn to all the spring colours but no. The consultant headed me towards one colour.  And one colour only. Pink. What is this? Legally Blonde?  I reassured her with all the calm I could muster that pink was not my favourite colour. She then back-tracked slightly and allowed me to have pastel colours. Pastels?! Pastels??! I don’t care how blonde I am, I am not dressing like Barbie for anybody! At which point she backed off and said, well, actually, any colour would suit me.

Result.

But, back to the  postal intrigue… I had a near miss one day… I’d ordered a sewing dummy from ebay because I was fed up with trying items on and getting stuck with every single pin in it. So, get a dummy. Simple solution, yes?

No.

Well, yes.

Partly.

I ordered the thing, no problem. It arrived.

Almost no problem.

Now, while most items you get through the post are wrapped to within an inch of their life you feel you need to play ‘pass the parcel’ with them, this wasn’t. It wasn’t even in a box. It was simply packed in Brown paper and string. Form-fitting brown paper at that. Essentially the postman knocked on my door and handed me a torso. A headless, limbless body. To say he was uncomfortable would be a massive understatement.

So, in order to reinforce my individuality, my wardrobe consists of home-made/designed items, and finds from the local charity shops. My only complaint about the charity shops is that it would seem only skinny girls seem to turf stuff out on a regular basis. Mind you, I do manage to find some quite delicious designer finds every now and again. I do have some reservations about designer gear, and the type of items in sale.

I think they should scream (in a subtle, well-heeled way, of course) class, elegance and quality. Not pointlessness and expense for the sake of it.

It’s like these people who wear the t-shirt with the designer logo on the front – what’s the point?  If you want to own something by a designer, go and buy something!  Don’t walk around doing their advertising for them!

Yes…  “Look at me! Look at me, lesser mortal! I can afford designer clothes!”

My take? ‘Giorgio, Issey, Jean-Paul – love the new collection, but if you want to use my boobs as an advertising space, YOU pay ME. And I charge by the square yard, by the way…’

Booyah, as they say.

 

 


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A rose by any other name

I wish there was a different word for vampire. You get all these young teenagers who go on about “Oh, it would be so cool to be a vampire.” I mean, would it really? Are you sure you want to do that? The whole teeth thing for a start, and never knowing if you’re going to bite your lip. For not smiling; not to be able to go out in the sun properly… that’s a bit of a drag.

It might seem all cool and glamorous and everything but ah, it’s tedious. Well, not tedious but it gets in the way of a lot of things. It’s not exactly a lifestyle choice.

But what was I saying. .? Oh, right… Names… After all, you have so many different styles of eating out there: your omnivore, your Paleo, vegetarian, vegan, Raw vegan, fruitarian, breatharian (!). Don’t get me started on the breatharian movement. How #FirstWorldProblem is that?

I just wish there was another word that would make vampirism sound cool. I guess the fact I’ve used the word ‘cool’ not only betrays my age but probably points out just how uncool I am. I mean, how about ‘haemogan’? Although that actually sounds like something a celebrity couple would call their baby son…

I remember an episode of “Doctor Who” and there were these creatures that were essentially crusty, bug-eyed vampires. They were called ‘haemovores’. Now that was pretty neat. Except that the word ‘haemovore’ was always preceded by word “ancient”; as in “Ah! The ancient haemovores are attacking!” Why ‘ancient’, for goodness sake? Still, I suppose ‘young, hip and trendy haemovores’ would have been slightly less terrifying.

So, as you can imagine, my parents kept me a secret – what I was, I mean. Can you blame them?

“Oh, I see the [Smiths] are about. They’ve got a vampire in their family, you know!

“There goes the neighbourhood…”

It was bad enough trying to keep the net curtains white and their front step shiny… let alone having to hide the fact that there was an unclean thing in the house! And when I say ‘unclean thing’, I don’t mean morally or spiritually, I just mean I was little. I hated baths.

Of course, my siblings gradually began to work out what was different about their little sister. That’s where the fun started. And when I say ‘fun’. What I actually mean is – the opposite of fun. There were little things like making me watch horror films (I told you before), and pointing to the various monsters and going “That’s you, that is!” Yes, I’m sure the widow’s peak and black cape is going to be a big look this spring. Thanks, and I’m sure I’ll rock that look one day when I’m older and my teeth grow in. Which they did, quite quickly.

Or…

Or the time my brothers locked me in a suitcase. “Thought you might like the practice for when you get your own coffin!”. Yeah, that was nice. It was really uncomfortable (never underestimate the luxury of a bit of silk lining!). The worst bit was – it was tea time, and they left me in there and only let me out afterwards, having told Mother that I wouldn’t come in because I was playing outside. So not only did I not get any tea, I got a thorough beating for being disobedient!   Okay, so Mother’s ‘thoroughness’ could be quite capricious, depending on her mood, but that day she was especially thorough! I wonder sometimes how come I’ve still retained the super-human hearing, given the amount of times she mistook my head for a bongo…!

Excuse me… there’s someone at the door. Either it’s the post or they’ve found me. Again. Discovery or a fruit knife from ebay…

Oh, I love my life!


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