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Last night I found a smudge of lipstick on my Covid mask.
I don’t drink or suffer memory lapses and have no recollection of any intimate encounter that might have created this crimson blemish.
In a column for The Oldie, I described a romance with Audrey Hepburn, long whiles agone, brutally cut short by a Procrustean elevator. Audrey may well have materialised in a burst of ectoplasm on New Year’s Eve, and resumed her amorous attentions. To many, this may seem a far-fetched explanation, but it is the one that I offered my wife, who respects my interest in the supernatural.
I am regularly haunted and, like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I find the ghosts of past loves to be the most terrible. There is an alcove in my library which I call ‘spooky
