In which the author experiences a dark moment but there is sunshine at the edge of the horizon...

I met a werewolf today.

Just before lunch, I set off with thoughts of visiting Leominster - no idea why, it just sounded interesting.  Any place with a name the Americans can't pronouce has to be worth a visit.  But the sky in that direction was dark and gloomy.  Casting a quick look around me, the horizon to the east was blue and speckled with little, white fluffy clouds (I feel a song coming on).  Hanging a right at the next junction, the Small Dog and I descended upon Worcester, via the Malverns and a mad dash about the park.

Now, if something horrible happened to our lovely countryside and I had to relocate to a city or town, then Worcester is right up there in the top five favourite places; a maze of streets and lanes, on the water's edge without being the seaside, parks with trees, culture and impressive architecture with a decorative roofline.  Which explains why I spent a lot of time looking upwards and not where I was going.

I'd just stepped out into the wonderfully warm sunshine from a funky little New Age shop - one that smelled of sandalwood and not patchouli, for a change - when I was distracted by the pargetting on the building across the road and walked straight into the path of an oncoming werewolf.  There were the usual mumbled apologies and that embarrassed eyes-down shuffling dance when no one knows who's to give way first.  When I looked up, I initially thought he'd got severe facial burns and just a weird hairstyle but then he smiled, revealing a sense of fangs.  As you do, I smiled back and went on my way.

I suppose one has come to expect it in any large concentration of retail outlets, where Crass Commercialism and the Public Holiday have taken hold of the vending trade by the short and curlies, but it still dismayed me that today was Halloween and nearly every shop window was already sporting a Christmas display.  In some cases, there were pumpkins and black cats looking quite at home in a fantasy winter wonderland.

I found all this superficial Christmassyness a bit despressing, partly because the holiday period hasn't been that full of comfort and joy for me over the last few years.  To illustrate: Boyfriend #2 left for America just after New Year's Day 1993 (when I promised myself I wouldn't cry but still did - for weeks); I managed to fall out with all three of Boyfriend #3's sisters Christmas 1995; it took the whole of December 1996 for same boyfriend to get the message we were really over, followed by a January of bitter phone calls and - when I changed the number - a

raft of hateful letters.  Finally, last year (1997), Boyfriend #4 and I had our one and only argument on Boxing Day which, if I'm honest, was the prelude to the end of the relationship.  When everyone else appears to be frantically looking for a romantic interlude in time for Christmas, I always seem to be having a crisis of heart and/or conscience and usually end up single by Valentine's Day.

As kids, you're so focussed on the build up to and the actual event of Christmas Day, you're completely unaware that life goes on for everyone around you, although sometimes I think adults are equally guilty of using the festive season as an excuse not to deal with real issues (as well as New Year, Valentine's, assorted birthdays, anniversaries, etc, etc) - we've all done it.  That probably sounds more melodramatic than was meant but you know what it's like at the time - when you're right in the middle of it and you don't have the emotional strength to invoke an internal "third party" perspective on the situation, so it's just easier to live the lie.

Nearly an hour later, I was reading the papers in Costa (yeah, I know, sometimes I'm not so prinicpled and anyway it had a great window seat and I like turquoise - really) when the werewolf walked past.  Our eyes met, there was a spark of recognition and, rather alarmingly, he turned around and came in.  In short, his name was Dave, he was doing a degree in something computery, he was bunking off for the afternoon and, laughably, had lost his mumm (his friend, also in fancy dress).  Apart from the fact he was ten years younger than me (him: "my big sister's young than you", me: "oh, er, thank you"), he was hitting on me in a rather endearing way (me: "you're very nice but I don't really think so", him: "oh, er, thank you") and we spent an enjoyable half hour together discovering we didn't share common taste in anything.  At least we both came away with a story to tell.

I returned to the car park where the Small Dog was sunning himself on the parcel shelf.  He's very good about staying the car but I took pity on him and we had a quick stroll along the river's edge.  I tied him to a bench and popped into a cafe to pick up something for dinner.  When I came back, the SD was now sitting on the bench between two builders sharing a packet of digestives.  "We didn't feed him!" one cried.  All three of us looked down at the dog, who had his buried in the man's sandwich box, licking the crumbs. Suddenly aware no one was talking, he looked up. "What?"

Heading back to the cottage in the glorious late afternoon sun, I was feeling rather mellow.  If your frame of mind could be in Technicolor then I'd say at that precise moment mine was tinted with the golds, oranges and reds of the autumn leaves - the kind of colour scheme that leaves you feeling warm and glowy.  Looking at the leaves as they rippled on the trees, I was taken back to a holiday in Thailand where the statues of Buddah shimmered with squares of loosely applied gold leaf as it fluttered in the rising heat.

As I drove back, an imaginary road movie, starring yours truly, started playing out in my mind.  Across the states, everything I owned in the boot of a wide convertible (including SD - nevermind the paperwork); or even coast-to-coast through Canada ending up in Vancouver, city of rock 'n' roll - man.  It had the makings of a New Country song; you know, where the truck starts, your wife comes back, the dog doesn't bite you and life is good.