They laughed as I howled at the moon...

Make no mistake; I can take anything that the vampire world has to offer. Bring on crucifixes and coffins, and juicy garlic necklaces adorning Ruritanian cottages. I thrill to rising mists in overgrown graveyards, bats a-flapping against church roofs, and wolves howling as a black-clad count lauds his cheel-dren of the naaaaa-ightt….aaaaaaah! What’s not to love and when I saw the jaw-dropping, heart-stopping, head-spinning, sense-dimming Vampire roller coaster wheeling across the mock-Transylvanian town at, er, Chessington World of Adventures, I was sold.
It began well; queuing in the atmospheric forest with snippets of bat lore posted along the way, cartloads of screaming rollers coasting overhead at intervals. I simply couldn’t wait to get up there and experience a gentle fantasy of flying bat-like over rooftops and about the trees. Presently, we entered a darkened tunnel and descended to a subterranean terminal bathed in red light, a grey-haired automaton drawing subsonic sounds from the mock-organ – cool, oh so cool… At last, Elder Niece and I attained our carriage. Secured in our seats by plastic cages, the ride began - and my gentle fantasies blew away in the giddying, nauseating and utterly terrifying experience that followed. As the ground yawned underneath and trees and rooftops veered ever closer, I lost it. I wept and howled, shut mine eyes and prepared to die. Once, I opened them, only to see a pine trunk moving ever closer.
It’s all over, I sobbed.
My life was about to end in an ignominious splat on the side of a tree in a hokum, amusement-park forest. I wept and howled and wept and howled again, and waited for the smash. Every moment turned to infinity, my only connection with the real world being the reassuring grip of Elder Niece on my hand, like a nurse bringing a psychiatric patient through a bad dream. Eventually the whirling stopped and the carriage came to a halt.
Are we alive? I whispered, as we arrived in the subterranean terminal. We climbed out of the shadows and into the sunlight, my jelly legs aided and abetted by the staircase railings and indeed, terra firma had never looked so beautiful. Sitting outside and recovering, the overhead hollering alerted me to a cartload of screaming rollers coasting overhead…oh, my gosh…I want to go up again....

BHS and the marvellous £10 maillot

I have in my possession a lilac swimsuit, purchased c. 2007, size 14, long body, scoop necked, high-cut leg – a real classic, you could say. It is the remaining one of a succession of suits, identical apart from their various colours, which I owned at the crest of a watery phase in my career. In my inward eye, I can see the late line-up in my wardrobe; fuchsia pink, bright blue, navy, black and exotic orange in addition to said lilac. I purchased all of them from BHS and, at £10 a pop, no better value existed for a water babe who had not yet earned the right to wear a suit marked speedo – and very appropriate merchandising for an erstwhile store owner who spends much of his time larking around on a luxury yacht. Certain of the suits were replaced a few times over; I got through three black suits and two pink ones, I think.
When I wanted a new suit, I simply went to the BHS swim shop with the product tag from off the previous suit, matched it and purchased accordingly. I can’t remember exactly when matters began to change, but change they did. I still have impressions of wandering confusedly around the swim shop, trying to match my product tag with luxury striped maillots and suits sprouting exotic blossoms – and all with at least a 50% price mark-up on the plain, classic suit. Was it a coincidence that my life’s circumstances began to change around the same time, leaving less time for going to the pool? It’s a moot point and one to ponder as I wander around the now ghostly BHS, customer voices echoing as the last bits and pieces leave the rails. My sadness at its demise is tinged with satisfaction at having supported the store in its heyday, and anger at the forces that have brought it down – and I’ll ever treasure my £10 lilac maillot.