It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Romanian woman in possession of a UK visa must be in want of British blood. However little known of the feelings of such a woman may be on her first arrival at a party, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding company that as soon as she enters the party she is looked upon with suspicion.
“Oh dear, have you heard that there is a Romanian at the party?” said Ben to his girlfriend. “She is the one holding a wine glass, but I would be careful getting near her, that red looks a bit too dark for a wine”. His girlfriend replied that she didn’t think it was such a big deal, and went about with lowering the level of whiskey from her glass. “But you know what that means” said Ben with a grave voice, “they are vampires!”. His girlfriend made no answer. “Are you not worried at all that she might want to drink our blood?” cried Ben impatiently.
“I am here to get wasted, go and reassure yourself if you must, but let me finish my drink so I can get another one before all alcohol is gone!”
That was encouraging enough. Ben made his way towards the unsuspecting woman, and demanded to know the truth.
“Are we not all vampires eager to scratch the healing wound and drink its poisoned blood?!” replied the woman who was feeling a bit philosophical after a few glasses. That was enough to make Ben feel both panic and thrill at being right.
“The sweetest blood comes from the healing wound, oh to keep its poison fresh!” replied Ben trying to go along while thinking of a way to warn the others.
“I enjoy this bitter comedy” said the woman in response, “I guess it is true that life’s twisted hand has the most thirsty vampire be also the one to understand most vividly the vibrations of the poison drawn heart” and raising her glass towards him, she said: “there is a pleasant feeling in letting my tongue swim in the blood of British grapes”.
“To be drunk on painful secrets and putrid lies!” burst Ben as the alcohol took over in his brain. “I believe it is the British blood that is truly a treat for your wicked lust!”
As his words resonated throughout the room reaching even the most distanced guests’ ears, Ben snatched the glass from her hand and set himself to the task of exposing the intruder. To his astonishment, his ingenious supposition about the nature of the liquid that occupied the glass was refuted when it turned out that it was only the juice of grapes from Welsh lands.
Disturbed by Ben’s unsatisfactory show, the crowd went back to their previous occupations, the rest of the evening passing with an awkward disposition for everyone. Soon after, the Romanian woman was on a flight to Transylvania, her two checked-in bags clinking bottles of a red oily liquid that was not what the Welsh label said.
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