The Rosewood School For Young Vampires

At the Rosewood School for Young Vampires, where the curtains are always drawn against anything but knowledge, Tommy Fang, a comparatively new boy at the age of eighty , was sitting in a solitary position at the back of the school canteen.

Although enthusiastic about many aspects of his fate-chosen life style, his  allergy  relating to the sight and taste of blood had left him in a difficult position with regard to obtaining the necessary levels of nutrition, and also admiration, from his classmates. No one wished to see him being picked on except the crueller element of the pupil population numbering no more than 80% of the children.  Were he to be  bitten or roughhoused in that cheery manner young children have with each other, a disturbing light might be thrown on the schools uncertain public reputation, and this was to be avoided at all costs.. His diet of porridge laced with a high percentage of iron pills and a skilfully included splash of tomato ketchup; added in an  attempt to coach him in the pleasures of the colour red, kept him healthy but not entertained.

The year was, or is  depending on your perspective, 2038 and your gallant reporter and blogger had managed to travel there after spotting a special quality associated with egg timers. The resultant time-travel  craft lacked glamour, and was a trifle slow, but included a comfy arm-chair and a selection of magazines on train spotting in case the journey involved undisturbed levels of boredom: the lack of passing trains had been overlooked by the entertainment committee

I have a range of attributes, and some of them are disclosed, but courage is not one of them, so I was firmly encased in a strong suite of armour with the words “Property of the British Dental Foundation” emblazoned on the front. Those of you in the know, will recognise that vampires of any age are often fearless and possibly slightly arrogant, but dental hygiene, for obvious reasons, is taken very seriously among such folk, and I hoped this sign of expertise might prevent them investigating my protective gear too deeply.

I made my way as quietly as I could down to the seat where young Tommy was playing with his food. Quietly may be the wrong word, because, mysteriously, a suite of armour is not the preferred costume of the cat burglar.  I sat beside young Master Fang, as he was referred to by his teachers, and, in a rare display of bravado, flicked open the visor of my helmet and stared deep into his pale and expressionless eyes. ” Have you tried vegetarian sausages” I asked him, “Full of flavour but also free of meat”. His answer was unfathomable, but is currently at the translators and, if they are successful, the full force of his response may be published by my local newspaper in its  time travel section.

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