Say no to the toe

One of the things I love about autumn (as if there weren’t 1 million things already) is the return of shoes and boots to the general human populace. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, everyone will be putting their ugly* feet away.

The thing is, you see, where we live now, September is still summer – just without the tourists and their grocklewuffs. Well, there are still tourists, but they’re mostly the silver surfer types. More interested in finding the nearest tea-room than taking over the beach and letting their feral offspring attempt a kind of sandcastled world domination.

(A partly rhetorical question – are all undisciplined ‘friendly’ free-range mutts called Olly or Milo? Please let me know if you have a well-behaved furbaby by one of these names. I’d genuinely love to know as I’m in danger of developing a neurotic reaction to the names.)

Anyway

October is where glorious autumn starts kicking in. And by November, everyone can breathe a sigh of relief.

Footwear.

Back on topic.

The sandals and flip-flops have been put away for another year so we’re spared from the horrific sight of tangled toes and mangled toenails. I’m sorry, but putting sparkly nail varnish once a year on those otherwise totally neglected toe-talons does not make your fungal footsies ‘sandal-ready’.

*This is what I meant by ugly, oh thou easily triggered masses. I meant feet that have been neglected and/or thoughtlessly warped and tormented for the sake of ‘fashion’.

The things humans do (or don’t do) to their feet…

I’ve heard of people who had toes amputated so they can fit into a particular brand of ultra-narrow designer shoes. Can you imagine what future anthropologists are going to say when they dig up these poor beggars?

As for me, I have hobbit feet. They are literally half as wide as they are long. And when I say literally, I literally mean literally. I’ve actually measured them. Very small and – as you can imagine by the ratio I’ve just given you – extremely wide. I usually end up having to get shoe sizes two or possibly more sizes large just to get all my toes in!

Now, I don’t know if that’s a vampire thing or not. All I know is that I suddenly have bouts of footy claustrophobia if there isn’t a good couple of centimetres/an inch of space at the front of my shoe.

I hate to say it, but I’m grateful that my parents made me wear boring, properly-fitted shoes as a child. My feet, though weird, are now actually quite cute (so I’ve been told). No bumps, no lumps, no twisted tootsies doing the foot equivalent of duck-facing. My toes do not photobomb each other. Wearing lace-ups to school was never going to end well. Let’s face it, I was going to get picked on, no matter what shoes I wore.

I remember when slip-on shoes were all the rage. I was finally given the option to go choose my own shoes. I bought them and proudly wore them on the Monday, only to get picked only for wearing ‘slippers’. Moccasins had, apparently gone out of fashion exactly  28 seconds after I bought them. Oh well.

Anyway, I’ll stop ranting and finish with a bit of advice I was once given by someone I worked with. It’s concerning good sleep and good shoes –

“Two things you should never scrimp on – decent shoes and a decent bed because you spend most of your life either on your feet or on your back.”

Well said.

Say no to the toe. Two hoots for the boots.

Happy Autumn!

Hello, Autumn. Again.

Well, hello there!

Oh yes. Summer is over.

Did you have a good one?

Did you wish it would never end?

I’m having my summer now. Actually, it’s still quite nice here during September. So I can have some nice weather (not too sunny, thank goodness), with all the peace and quiet that takes over when all the tourists pack up and shuffle back off to the hum-drums.

I know I’m not the only person glad to see some people leave…

I was just walking up the road from town when I saw a lady very enthusiastically waving goodbye to visitors leaving in an overly smart car.  Her enthusiasm led me to believe one of two things – the second being that she was pleased to see them go. As in, really pleased. Within a few seconds, I had my suspicions confirmed.

She went into her house and I heard a very strange noise. Sort of like a scream. I paused, wondering what was wrong. And then I heard her voice yell at full volume: “I’m FREEEEEEEEEE!”.

Ah yes, the summer holiday season is truly over.

As ever,  I spent the summer hiding away from it all. I know I started spectacularly early this year. Sorry about that. Normally I disappear about July but this year, the hot weather kicked in particularly early.

Did I go anywhere? As in a proper holiday, rather than just lurking in any available shadows?

Sort of.

We went camping. We didn’t go away very far. We had the furball to think of. As we’ve never taken her camping before, we didn’t want to take the chance of her freaking out. Because then, of course, there’d be the inevitable ensuing chaos. After all, we had to find somewhere where we could take her which meant one thing: other people would be there with their little furry bundles of joy.

Dealing with grocklewuffs on home turf is one thing, but dealing with grocklewuffs when you are one, is another matter altogether.

The upshot? Of the three of us, our furry little princess slept better than either of us. All those snuggly corners to nest in. Sleeping bags to invade at 3am. Doggy bliss. And sleeping on a surface that wasn’t super soft? No problem. She loved it.

Us?

Not so much.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love camping. I just love my bed more. When you find yourself groaning with the physical effort of turning over on your ‘deluxe’ bedroll because every. single. vertebra has locked in place and you now have an iron rod for a spine and padlocks where your joints used to be, you know you’re not going to get much sleep.

This was not so much glamping as glumping.

But I’m back now and looking forward to seeing what the new season has in store. Glad to have you along for the ride!

Happy autumn!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Follow-me-follow at https://twitter.com/EverydayVampire

Oh, and here, too. Of course.

 

Telepathetic

You know what? I’ve just remembered what I was going to talk about a couple of weeks ago.

Typical, isn’t it?

Now I don’t know if it’s the vampire brain, or whether it’s just me, but I do find sometimes that there’s something stuck in my head and I can’t get to it for ages.

It’s like that pen that falls down behind a cupboard and you do your darnedest to reach it, but no matter how much you stretch your arm out, you can’t even get your fingertips on it…

Well, that was my problem last time.

And now I’ve remembered what it was.

I’d be great on a debate programme, would I?

Oh yes, I’d have my devastatingly astute comeback at the ready. Give me three weeks, and you can have it.

It was all to do with another myth I heard about the other day.

Apparently, vampires can read minds.

What?

Heck, no!

I’d be even crazier than I already am!

I’m already an empath, so I can feel other people’s emotions, but having their thoughts dumped on me too?

Gahhhh!

No, that’s not the case, (un)fortunately. While yes, it might be useful on occasion, I doubt it’s something you could turn on and off like a tap.

This is actually what’s going on, should you ever meet a vampire…

It’s the turbo brain thing. The vampire brain moves so fast, it collects information at a rate that computers are probably envious of. If computers could feel envy, or indeed… anything.

We watch you.

We read your body language, your facial expression, the way you blink your eyes, the way you twist your mouth as you talk. Every single thing. And every single one of those things is an insight into what you’re thinking. Your face and your body are simply the hand-puppets of your brain.

We know if you’re lying. We know if you’re in pain. We know every single thing that you want to hide. And it’s got nothing to do with telepathy. Nothing at all. At the risk of sounding like a zombie recovery counsellor, your brain is safe.

There.

That’s either made you feel relieved or really creeped out…

I’d love to know which…

 

Brainiac alert

I don’t really know what to say today. This is one of the problems with the vampire brain, as I’ve mentioned before. And yes, for once I do actually remember talking about it. Or referring to it at least.

Ain’t no such thing as a clever vampire.

What?

That’s confused you, hasn’t it!

Well, there’s no such thing as a stupid vampire either. Despite what popular culture tells you. Let’s face it, all that business with tv/film vampires disappearing in a poofff of smoke when they get staked?

Plot device.

Saves a lot of explaining.

Go back to the legends. I had to. That’s all I’ve really got to go on, apart from my own experience.

So.

To save you scratching your head any further…

No such thing as a clever vampire. It’s the turbo brain. It’s not just clever. And this is going to sound so conceited… but a vampire brain is a work of genius.

Did I ever tell you that when I studied psychology at university back in the 20th century, MENSA tracked me down and asked me to join..?

I think I may have been slightly put off – and off-putting in my response.. Or perhaps I was just really, really polite. That bit, I can’t remember. It was so long ago.

Have you ever had that happen to you?

There are always two versions of events.

There’s the one where you go out , all guns blazing (metaphorically, of course), with biting and incisive wit and say the exact things that need to be said…

And there’s the other version…

Where you mumble something and run away in the other direction.

Ah.

Thinking further about it now, I think I can probably guess which one I did.

You too, huh?

So, we’re not so different after all, are we?

How do you humans get around this? I’d love to know.

I’m just going to go and hide in a corner now. You know where to send the answers. Good day.

I never drink… wine

Sorry, I just had to use that classic quote.

Just a short one today. Ever wondered why the majority of movie vampires have such a restricted diet? But why some do eat? I’m thinking wonderful things like deep-fried onion ‘flowers’… (Name That Fictional Vampire!)

I probably should have mentioned this just after Christmas, when everybody’s motto is  “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we diet.”

So…

Food.

I know I have briefly talked about this before. But looking back, I realised that I never explained it properly. Well, guess what – today is your (un)lucky day.
I have talked about allergies and sensitivity to certain foods. I have not gone into detail about their effects on my vampire metabolism. Nor will I. Some things you just don’t talk about. Nor would you want me to talk about them.

It’s really quite straightforward.

But first, I’ll go off on one of my infamous tangents. Well, I say infamous…  the truth is nobody cares. Like when some brand/store/restaurant claims that something of theirs is world famous, you can be pretty sure that it’s probably not.

So, here’s my tangent. Mostly to try to key into your human sensibilities by sharing an incident that actually happened to a human. A rather cool human, to be honest. One of the few friends I had growing up. But that’s a tangent on a tangent.

Anyway!

This friend… let’s called her Persephone. Mostly because I wanted the excuse to use that name somewhere. Persephone was not a ‘look-before-you-leap’ kind of human. She was always an ‘Ask-questions-after’ kind of person.

One day, Persephone was thirsty and wandered into her kitchen and saw a nice glass of lemonade sat there. Thinking it had been left sitting there by one of her flatmates, she glugged it back, making a note to replace it later. She also ended up needing to replace her lunch, and the kitchen mat.

It wasn’t lemonade.

It was cooking oil.

Her flatmate was baking and couldn’t find the measuring cup for the oil so had used a glass instead.
And if that wasn’t enough to make her check first, a mere few days later, she pulled out a chunk of cheese from the fridge and dived into it. She carved herself a big chunk and scarfed it down. Only it wasn’t cheese. It was butter.

As you can imagine, it put her off oil and butter. She dry-fried her food for the rest of her life. Her relationship with lemonade and cheddar was also touch-and-go for a long time. Now imagine if you actually were allergic. Imagine how put off you would then be if you tried a food and it made you feel ridiculously ill. Even seeing it would set you off.

Makes you wonder what must’ve happened with the garlic, doesn’t it? It’s a classic thing that vampires are utterly revolted and repelled by the stuff. Think about it. That’s got to be the most traumatic garlic bread ever.

And so that’s why you see so many vampires that just stick to good old blood. It’s just easier. Beats all the hassle of –

But I said I wouldn’t talk about that.

And the ones you see eating? We’re the ones that got past the knee jerk reactions and worked out what we could eat.

Simple, really.

Still waters

Okay, so I know I went off on one but last time.

My apologies.

Vampires don’t exactly have anger issues (apart from those associated with the inherent ADHD) but sometimes humans do annoy us a little. I bet that’s a shock, isn’t it? I’d say I was pulling your leg, but you might worry I was going to pull it off and eat it, to misquote Butcher Beynon from Under Milk Wood (I’m surprised this didn’t AutoCorrect his name to Beyoncé!) As I’ve said before, I love to read.

Or have I said that before?

Oh well, my memory…

Anyway, last time I was complaining about somebody complaining. I will now try to redress the balance by saying something positive that I overheard. It was another family of tourists who had come to visit the universe’s favourite corner of the Earth (aka my hometown).
It was a comment that made me really appreciate the beauties of nature and my surroundings.
“Everything is so green here.” he said, with a note of awed wonder in his voice.

Of course it is. This is Wales. It’s constantly raining.

Well, perhaps not constantly but clearly enough to irrigate the spectacular greenness of the local area. I have a Weather app on my phone that tells me the percentage chance of it raining. I have discovered since moving here that anything over 5% in theory equates to 100% in reality.

Which brings me to one myth that I have never mentioned before. To wit, the myth about vampires hating running water. As with most myths, there is a nugget of truth in this as I shall explain.

Vampires like myself have a deep respect for nature. We know it’s not mucking about. Let’s face it, when you’ve been around long enough to see a house built in a field near the sea, watch the field turn into a cliff and then watch that house fall off the edge, then you have a pretty good idea.

It’s not like with humans who see a couple of talking lion cubs in a cartoon and think that lions are all cute little kitties. Cue disaster story on the news of person being eaten by hungry lion.

Fact: if water is running somewhere, then you can be pretty sure there’s going to be some other stuff going on at some point.

Fancy dicing with that?

Now, I’m lucky. I’m one of the few vampires that learnt to swim. You see, swimming lessons generally tend to be during the day. This can be problematic for some vampires.
Rivers deep enough to swim in tend to have undercurrents. The sea can be rough. Don’t listen to any singing lobsters.

In light of this, I just happen to be very good at holding my breath. I have the bullies at school to partly thank for that. As a side note, I’m also a whizz at pulling sink plugs out with my teeth. Yes, it comes back to the teeth again.

Also: if you’re stuck out at sea, there’s not a great deal of shade available out in the middle of the Atlantic, say.

So you see, if a vampire doesn’t like running water, there’s sure to be a good reason for it.

Ever seen a vampire on an Olympic swim team? Probably not.

Or have you????

Cry havoc…

.

…and let slip the dogs of walkies!

Ahh…

A new year.

Mini tourist season is over until the next big holiday.

*sigh of relief*

As I was picking up my groceries the other day, a rather fiercesome human barged past me and announced to his equally clueless family in an accent that was clearly anything but local: “Is this it? They’ve not got much here, have they?“ Well, bog off to Brighton if it’s shopping you’re after, mate!

How on earth did this man choose this as the perfect destination of his Christmas break? Stick a pin in the map?

(In case you’re wondering, I had a lovely Christmas, surrounded by family. We did everything from scratch and we planned everything meticulously a long while previously. It was our Christmas, we made it, nobody else had to).

And of course, with tourists comes that other delight. The tourists’ dog. You know the one that they’ve had since a puppy and in all that time they’ve not trained it to do anything more than sit, stay or possibly a cute “rollover “trick? You know the types. The dog that has never been trained to come back when it’s called… 

The dog that, when it runs off and starts picking fights with other dogs, promptly ignores its owner screaming its name repeatedly. Because, yeah, you scream my name like that, I’m gonna come back to you, I don’t think. I’m outta here, you two-legged sucker!

Free to roam.

Free to… well, do other stuff.

How many times have I heard the owner of a free-range pooch exclaim “I don’t know what’s wrong with Mister Woofles this morning; we’ve been out for over an hour and he still hasn’t done his business yet!

Oh yes, he has. Mister Woofles unloaded the minute you let him off the lead.

Mister Woofles has in fact left such a huge deposit that it has its own postcode. Whole generations of dung beetles have moved in and are celebrating with a ticker-tape parade. Their appeals to the dung beetle deity have been heard and answered. Mister Woofles’s contribution to the environment has ushered in a new Golden Age of dung beetle prosperity.

And then I saw this yesterday…

What sort of dog owner puts a sticker on the back of their 4×4 saying

Beware of the dog. It bites. You have been warned

and then lets them roam free – without muzzles – on a beach popular with dog walkers during doggy rush hour?!

If you’re going to do that, my dears, please make sure that the dogs are muzzled and please include yourself in that number.

So… you’re acknowledging liability for your animal being potentially dangerous, but if it bites me, it’s my fault?

Huh?

But you can’t say anything, can you? Nothing freaks out the passive-aggressive more…

Which reminds me…

Don’t you just love passive aggressive people calling other supposedly passive aggressive people out for being passive aggressive by using passive aggressive means to complain about the passive aggressive behaviour?

As with that now practically traditional Social Media post of “if u got a problem with me tell me 2 my face“ There are two problems with this…

Number one: tell you to your face? Which one?

Number two: could you be a little bit more identity-specific please?

And there’s always some sucker (who is probably completely innocent of any charges) who rises to the bait, bites and replies, asking if they are the target of this barblessly barbed comment. To which the reply is invariably “if the shoe fits, wear it.”

Well, that’s all fine and dandy, except…

Those kind of statements aren’t shoes, are they?

They’re flipping flipflops.

Designed to fit everybody. Guaranteed to make everyone uncomfortable.

Always remember, folks… Flip before you flop.