There's a wind. It's a steady, gusty wind, but not really a sharp penetrating wind, yet; it blows my skirt every which way, even up into my face - a blinding caress, black silk. I don't care, it's four o'clock in the morning (why don't they call it night?) and there's nobody around to see, so I don't bother doing the Marilyn Monroe thing of holding down my skirt to cover my seven year itch. Mostly my skirt doesn't rise anyway, it stays clinging to my legs like a shroud gone out of control. I take my hands out of my leather jacket. I'm moving, I don't need to hold them warm anymore; my metabolism comes to the rescue.

I'm a gothy sort. I'm not as sad as those poor sods who go in for the white face paint, red lipstick, and fangs - you know, the ever fashionable undead look - but still I must confess to being one of the fraternity of people who want to go bump in the night. You know, the sort that seem to have crawled out of a dungeon or a crypt or something, just in time for their daily feeding, book by Anne Rice clutched well-thumbed in one anaemic hand.

Actually, these days it's far more likely to be Pat Califia, but then, maybe that's because I have an eccentric life rather than an eccentric unlife. I shouldn't be so prejudiced against my fellow fashion victims, it takes all kinds after all, and besides, it isn't very sporting to succumb to internal prejudice. Maybe I'm just a pseudo-vampire who hasn't come out of the coffin to herself yet. Ye gods, does the universe have another funny surprise about my preferences, that I don't know about? It won't work, I'm long past being shocked.

Anyway, if you keep your eyes open you'll notice that at the beginning of a good night - say around ten o'clock - there's a whole bunch of us out, all busily walking our pet rats or what have you. Some of us recognize each other by now, after having bumped into each other (usually on High Street) and these times we nod. We don't say hello or otherwise politely acknowledge each others presence, we just nod. It's safer. It's kind of rude, after all, to call attention to another person's strange habits on a crowded street - "Hullo, Ian, how are things, lovely weather; great night for pretending to stalk, eh? Love your cape, it's very Bela Lugosi..." Perhaps some of these people are actually very close friends, and they greet each other as such. Me, I'm only on the fringes of the fraternity, I don't take such liberties. But I'm allowed to nod, and many of my fellow night walkers nod back. It's kind of nice. It adds that ever-important feeling of family solidarity.

Nobody's out at four in the morning, though; even the drunks and the street people have crawled off to bed for the most part, wherever it is they've happened to find shelter; the streets belong to me alone, or so it seems. Ever been on one of those "take back the night" marches, that protested violence against women? I used to participate in them all the time, back in the states. Here, hell, I've taken back the night, it's mine, I own it. There's a bit of rain on the wild wind. Still, misty nights are good for a night walk too - you can play little magic games, wrapping the fog about you like a cloak, pretending that you are invisible - but wild rainy nights are romantic. They call to you. They demand your notice. And the birds are singing, not morning-song but the sort of song you'd hear on a Sunday afternoon; they're confused. But you don't hear birdsong in the afternoon in town centre, unless it's the cooing of killer pigeons. Afternoon is for tossing the remains of a prawn sandwich onto the cobblestones of Gloucester Green, and pretending that you're Tippi Hendren.

The night is for doing the things you'd be afraid or embarrassed to do in public, in daylight. No, I don't mean that, although I suppose if you wanted to do it on High Street at four or five in the morning, you could probably get away with it. Mostly what I do is have a good look around. I become a tourist. It's so incredibly uncivilized to be a tourist at the university, so I save my tourist tendencies for these late night walks. Oxford is best seen by night anyway. I've crossed onto Broad Street, and I'm looking up at the gargoyles on the Sheldonian. They just wouldn't look right by day. All the spires, I can peer at them as voyeuristically as I want, and there's nobody around to tell me that I'm blocking the pavement, or otherwise acting like an obnoxious American tourist. It's night. The wind is blowing.

I guess it isn't truly safe - if I were in serious trouble, nobody might hear me or respond if I screamed. But my clothing is the colour of night, I blend in, I feel safe. When you're a thing that goes bump! in the night, how can you be really all that frightened by night's horrors? And Oxford after dark is not at all like South Collinwood after dark, which I've also wandered in, though that was for catching the 3 am bus to make it to a factory in time for shift, rather than for pleasure. I think part of the joy of acknowledging and reclaiming your inner monster is realizing that you have power. You are not a victim anymore, but a predator, at least in theory. Until the world embraces feminism, vampirism will have to do for the sassy single girl. It's good to wander the streets of Oxford after dark, after all the bicycles and tramps and shoppers have gone to bed. It's good to scan the odd gabled window for a late-night student. It's good to make the wet, cobbled streets your own. Somebody has to do it, and it might as well be us, with our fantasies of being wraiths and ghouls and mistresses of the dark and what have you. We don't bite, at least not much. We just dream. The streets are owned and walked by dreams. The fragile sanctity of dreams is the incense-scent of these Oxford nights, and it waits for worship. My heels are quiet and respectful as I turn a corner.

January, 1995