Ignorance Really Is Bliss

I have a newly acquired habit.

A vampire habit to be precise.

Before you start searching for stakes, crosses and garlic in the fear I have become a member of the undead, let me reassure you that I’m very much alive, I don’t have fangs (although I do have a bark (wait, do vampires bark?) and I have been known to bite on rare occasions), I don’t have any aversion to sunlight and I definitely have no penchant for sucking virgins drinking blood.

I’m talking about reading vampire stories.

I read the four books in the Twilight series a while back and although I thought they were okay, with the last book being the best of them, I wouldn’t rush to read them again.

I then started the first book in the series that True Blood is based on. I’ve never watched True Blood and now I probably won’t because I am majorly hooked, in a yeah-I’ll-start-dinner-in-a-minute-I-just-need-to-read-this-chapter-what’s-that?-okay-you-cook-I’ll-help-you-in-a-minute-what’s-that?-dinner’s ready?-oh-thanks-noooo-I’ve-got-to-put-the-book-down-to-cut-my-food-up-dammit sort of way on the books.

I’ve also been told the tv series is quite gory, and I categorically do not do gory. However, I am curious as to whether the character Bubba appears in the show, not due to the resemblance of my 'name' I hasten to add, but because before he became a fictional vampire he was someone very, very famous in real life. I think I may have to put on my Blue Suede Shoes and head to Heartbreak Hotel, because I'd be feeling All Shook Up if he wasn't (I do apologise, but I couldn't resist it).

When I’ve watched film or tv adaptations of books, I find I’m left disappointed and something other than my brain takes control of my mouth, as I just cannot stop myself saying, “That’s not how it bloody happened in the bloody book.” Or, “Jeez, the book is SO much better.” Or I become an ‘expert’ and declare, “I could have made the flippin’ film and done a much better job of it.”

That doesn’t go down too well if I’m at the cinema, and it tends to make whoever I’m with sink down in their seat, while trying to hide their face in their popcorn bucket.

Note to self: Find new, unsuspecting victims to go to the cinema with. OR don’t go to the cinema anymore. OR stop reading (yeah right, like THAT’s going to happen).

The Harry Potter films, with the exception of the first one, are a fine example of ballsed up adaptations. It got to the point where I didn’t bother going to the cinema when new films were released; I waited until they were for sale on DVD.

Then I sat through them getting more and more huffy and muttering, “It’s wrong. They’ve got it wrong.” Youngest Daughter’s response was typically something along the lines of, “Shut up.”

I’ve tried watching the last HP film twice, but both times I fell asleep on the sofa.

Nuff said.

I must have been totally out for the count on the second occasion, as I was absolutely unaware of Youngest Daughter taking a photo of me because, “the cats looked really cute snuggled up to you.” Oh bless, I thought.

You know how sometimes there are things you’re better off not knowing, and you can live day to day in blissful ignorance?

I saw the photo.

Yes, the cats did look sweet but...

Oh. Dear. God.

I did not know I looked like that when I sleep. I look… dreadful. Worse than dreadful. I look… undead.

When Eldest Daughter comes over from Australia, she wants us to go to the cinema to see the latest instalment together. Are you sure about that Eldest Daughter? You may have to gag me, or sit somewhere else and deny all association to me, as it’s highly likely I’ll either shout or snore.

Actually, please don’t let me fall asleep at the cinema.

Getting staked would spoil my evening.