Vampires: a hidden tragedy

I was very much hoping for splendidly gothic vampires when we moved here – the kind who are never seen except in immaculate late-19th-century evening dress complete with silk-lined cloak (the linings red for the men, very dark blue for the women). The kind who prey exclusively on impressionable young county tories.

Sadly we only get the shamblers: the kind who will drain a sheep if they can't find a human. Perhaps that's because, even here in deepest ruralshire, there are insufficient young tories to prey on, the average age of tories being what it is. All the posh vampires have gradually moved away & now live lives of splendid nocturnal dissolution in Chelsea, where the sheer density of both people and money ensures an adequate supply of their exclusive prey.

After CV19 they may be rethinking their priorities: perhaps having to drink the odd sheep will seem worth it. Vampires are sadly one of the groups most affected by CV19: it's not a lifestyle very compatible with social distancing, shall we say. While they have not been made public, I am informed that figures for both infection and, well, not mortality of course, but descent into the sad shambling state that awaits them all, eventually, are frighteningly high.

If you are in possession of a rambling country mansion, especially the sort of pastiche that Victorians or Edwardians would have regarded as an establishment suitable for a mediaeval count, but in fact anything dark and sinister will do, then expect to get financially attractive offers from very well-dressed people who wish to view the property at night. These offers may be difficult to refuse, especially if you are an impressionable young county tory or in possession of one. It is, in fact, your duty to your country to accept: the extinction of one of the country's greatest assets must be avoided.


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