Werewolf

The earliest stories about werewolves are in Latin literature.  When I teach fabula mirabilis in the Cambridge Latin Course, I make it spooky for the children with candles and creepy sound effects.

I also have a happy schooldays memory of the werewolf story from Petronius.  The way I translated it made it sound as if the werewolf was exposing himself.  My lovely teacher, Yvonne Simmons, roared with laughter – “It’s not that kind of story, Clare.”

So you’d think I’d be alright with werewolves.

But I’m not.

They are my pet fear.

So when Ann and Steve invited Nigel and I to go and see An American Werewolf in London, my first impulse was to say “No”.

“Oh come on, Clare.  It’s very tongue in cheek.”

Surely I am now grown up enough to sit through a light-hearted horror movie?

I could do this.  I really could.

“Look,” said Steve, “Great seats – right at the front.”

Turns out that I am now so grown up that I lasted only half an hour – even less than last time.

Luckily the Odyssey has a cool bar and I have a Kindle. 

After an hour of sipping a G & T and reading Naomi Alderman’s The Power, I began to believe that we women would one day gain world dominance.

This is possibly even more improbable than the existence of werewolves but at least it took my mind off them.