Wednesday. I hate vampires. I think I hate vampires more than anything else. Except pixies. Soho was full of them today with their usual competition over who can be the most pale and interesting. It’s beyond me why being pale when you’re dead is remotely interesting. I’m dead and I’m pale – so what? I remember when they were nothing more than run-of-the-mill forest demons; a small group used to occupy a garret across the old London Bridge. But then someone invents the cape and suddenly they’re aristocracy and now, to cap it all, they claim to represent youth culture. Youth culture, my arse.
It’s depressing; Soho used to be a half-decent place where you could hang out with dead poets. I persuaded a couple of others at the museum to help me carry over a sack of crucifixes from the Mediaeval Gallery and went around placing them in shop windows while the blood-suckers were asleep. It won’t last of course but I hovered over a rooftop and it was good to see them lose their cool for a while, running around like ants. But then I noticed the fires in the distance and realised how far the fighting had spread.