There used to be some of these in a field off Mill Lane, and they really do look at you like that. I found them a little unnerving, back in the day when I occasionally tramped the hallowed tarmac of Mill Lane in daylight. I don’t any more, not since I was informed that a few of the residents entertain the suspicion that I consort with undead maidens and children of the night (what music they make!)
I don’t, of course. I’ve never consorted with an undead maiden in my life. I did know a man once who appeared to totter uncertainly between being dead and undead. He was always pale, had no trace of personality, and never said anything remotely interesting in all the years I knew him. And yet he managed to become a father somehow. Conspiracy theories took root, as you might imagine.
And on a not-entirely-unrelated note, I saw some video footage of Enya tonight. I tell you, she could have been ten different people, courtesy of hair styles and make up. It reminded me that I learned early on to be suspicious of women who do the big hair-and-make-up thing. You just don’t know what you’re buying into. Fortunately, it doesn’t matter any more.