Told you. It looks goofy, and the piece was a little jarring at first, set among the more conventional narrative films on the disc, but it soon won me over and, of all the efforts on show, is certainly the one that will bear repeated viewing the best.

All the films were interesting; some were great. I ordered this before finding very much information on it, purely on the strength of the cover and a very minimal precis; I got my copy from http://www.dddhouse.com. Recommended! It costs about as much as a ticket to Kill Bill - save yourself the drudgery and order Tokyo Zance instead.

I see the Japanese (not literally all of them, of course) have invented a wrist phone that uses the bones of the hand to transmit your caller's conversation - in other words, you stick your finger in your ear to listen, and speak into the wristband. If you try a dummy run of this by jamming a finger in your ear and saying "testing, one two" into your wrist, you can experience the effect in question. Soon we'll all be living like this! Single-finger gloves will sell like hot cakes, and no doubt there'll be novelty versions for people who insist on stuffing Garfield in ther ear. This invention seems to perpetuate the Japanese interest in putting fingers in things - where will it all end? Japan, I suppose.

For the love of any number of forgotten Gods! How much longer can my conscience allow me to spend my hours of employment at an institution where a telephone directory is categorised - after a staff vote! - by Christian name? Possibly this is the result of voter apathy, but I fear the solution is far simpler and more chilling; that everyone else is, in fact, bereft of those faculties and features that comprise our nebulous guardian, sanity. At any rate, I earnestly counsel any reader who might think of voting for such a system to consult the telephone, buisiness or governmental directories of any nation on Earth (except possibly the fabled land of Shang-Ri-La), wherein they will hopefully perceive a pattern of usage honed through the aeons and born of tried-and-tested common sense. Harumph.

I lettori che non hanno abilità nelle lingue tranne l'inglese possono molto essere agitati da questa entrata, che spruzzerò con i nomi di celebrity quale David Bellamy e la marca occasionale come Fray Bentos o, effettivamente, Toffo, che non si levano in piedi probabilità di traduzione da questo agente automatizzato. Che cosa faranno delle frasi inscrutabili che accoppiano Ralph Bates con i simili di Pyramint? Per dire duro; più duro, forse, a cura. Ma piuttosto perpetrate questo oltraggio che applicarsi a lavoro genuino e, conseguentemente, lo ho lasciato rifinire dicendo che amore di Toto Coelo probabilmente per bere Irn Bru per lavarsi giù il loro Dairylea Lunchables - pagato, senza dubbio, da Christopher Biggins, che oaf grasso.

If the concept of a costumed Vincent Price narrating an assortment of Edgar Allan Poe tales for American television in 1972 appeals to you - and I rather fancy it should - look no further. Having viewed The Cask of Amontillado, I can recommend this disc without reservation - indeed with all reservation replaced with gusto (from the Latin, gustus - as in Augustus, I wonder?

At any rate, when this is combined with the upcoming UK release of the Dr. Phibes movies and the copy of Theatre of Blood I fully expet to find waiting for me at home this evening, I anticipate a Pricey month ahead. At such times, I am moved to hum the oft-forgotten Dave Green / Vincent Price single.

Welcome to the fold, if you will, noted camp icon Paisely Peter. Things are now more out of hand than... a... red-hot spoon... at... a dinner party... for... the sensitively-skinned. Irregardless, visit, read!

I invite you to dine - like a ghoul! - on my tale of a diabolic instrument; the Haunted Trombone.

Returned, then, I am from the bleak, forgotten hills of Wales. Fans of the macabre may be interested to learn that I rested for he week in the sturdy gatehouse of sixteenth century Gwydir Castle, reputably one of the most haunted abodes in the whole of North Wales - which does not, admittedly, have a great number of abodes. A servant girl walled up in a chiminy breast! The bones of a ghost dog unearthed in the cursed cellar! A spooky procession ambling the hallways by phantom torchlight! Regrettably, I was unable to make contact with the alleged spirits or get myself tapped on the shoulder in an empty room. I did, however, make the acquaintance of a great number of peacocks (and peahens, indeed), whose species I find to be most agreeable, and no doubt delicious, judging by their plump breasts and powerful thighs.

A more frightening prospect was a tour of the old almshouses in nearby Llanrwst, where we received a guide sheet from a gigantic manservant, reminiscent of Pavlo, the gingivitis-striken manservant from Suspiria (played by Giuseppe Transocchi, whom Dario Argento discovered working in a postal office). Rather than being mute, I suspect he merely spoke little English; after delivering the guide and activating an interactive monitor with his brutish fist, he proceeded to tend the exhibits with a feather duster.

We also visited a 5,000 year-old burial chamber, but I was disappointed to discover that merely stone remained, as opposed to the wall of skulls I had envisaged.

Beyond that, there is little to do in North Wales but apply oneself to the conquest of hills, which we duly did. We alo crossed a great many bridges, but encountered no trolls. Wales undeniably has a dour beauty, but I'm afraid it does little to scare. Perhaps I should journey next to Budapest or Amityville.

All that happened, happened at work. Staff development day! A terrible proposition. While those with something to live for boarded a coach for the Bodleian, I joined a small skellington crew (not literally, alas) to man the wretched library through another pointless day. Yet looking back, as I now do at midnight, I fancy I sense a net gain, through these deposits in the event bank:

1) Lounging in an unacceptable fashion at the service desk, I chanced to destroy a drawer handle. Many wonderful minutes were then spent surreptitiously securing a replacement handle from a less conspicuous drawer, abetted only by my trusty Swiss Army knife. I was vexed to remember that the knife does not contain a Philips-head screwdriver, but on a more positive note, my plan worked perfectly and within the space of one sixth of a minute I was lounging once more, having learned this: nothing.

2) My dear deskmate Jennifer brought forth a bag of Bursting Bugs, the delightful insect-shaped sweets that issue forth a bloodlike effluence when squeezed between thumb and forefinger. Having my camera about me, I felt inspired to create a morbid tableau by smearing my face and wrists with the candy plasma and collapsing upon the desk, but barely had I begun to daub the corner of my mouth than I was obliged to assist a lady from France who wished to transfer some photographs of barges onto acetate. I mention this because she was remakably - but subtly - hairy, her arms enveloped in a thick coat of blonde fur. I would estimate that were she to shave her arms, the detritus would fill a crisp packet with ease. But, of course, crisp packets are no longer a sensible unit of measurement, coming as they do in a variety of dimensions - from the runtish occupants of the family pack to the ludicrously proportioned extreme of Walkers' Sensations. Perhaps it would serve my story better if I were to estimate that one could probably fit the combined shavings of those Gallic limbs into one's mouth, but not without discomfort; and certainly not without forfeiting the ability to speak - to ask, perhaps, for a glass of water. In short, a hirsute mademoiselle; only the most pious of minds could resist contemplating the extent to which her winter coat spread beneath her clothes, perhaps matting across her chest, or pooling at the base of her spine. Lycanthropy? I confess, I did not like to ask.

3) Tragedy, that oaf of a circumstance, struck at 4:30pm, when the automated public address message warning of the impending closure of the library failed to find its voice. Investigating, I found the poor Pentium 166 charged with this service struggling vainly to control Windows Media Player (ours is indeed an elegantly implemented solution). In a desperate attempt to rectify the problem before the scheduled 4:45pm announcement, I threw the machine into a hasty reset, to be rewarded with the unwelcome appearance of ScanDisk. Neverthetwain, I persevered and was finally able to run the fifteen-minute warning (albeit manually) no more than five minutes late. I did not feel this was entirely satisfactory, and so I solicited the assistance of a nearby and willing academic's daughter, whose age I would estimate at twelve, to broadcast a five-minute announcement through the PA microphone, which no proper member of staff will ever agree to touch. Now, I am often witness to the casting of aspertions upon the moral fortitude of the younger generation, but it is of great credit to this young girl that she did not seize the opportunity to present a barrage of filthy words through the many speakers distributed around the library, as perhaps you or I might have done. In the few moments immediately following her impromptu performance, I dare say I perceived the faintest glimmer of hope for the future - albeit it blurred and obscure, like a figure glimpsed briefly through a thin shower curtain.

4) The library, then, closed as advertised - and yet when the doors are sealed and the light extinguished, one can always be sure of encountering some straggler, be they staff or student. With the holiday season still in effect, and the majority of my workmates revelling in far-flung Oxford, I felt it safe to expermientally torment those who failed to heed our hard-won broadcasts. To this end, I connected my trusty iBook to the PA amplifier and transmitted John Carpenter's theme from Halloween throughout the darkened library. Certainly, I received testament that some where startled by this development; not least because I had failed to factor in the iBook's own amplificaton of the signal prior to its treatment by the address system. The resultant cacophony may certainly have been identifiable as Carpenter's spine-chilling melody, but I suspect any flight-or-fight responses that may have taken place were inspired more by volume than atmosphere.

And so, we locked one final door behind us and departed to our private lives. But I feel sure that more was gained than was lost in the course of this working day; a reclamation of spiritual expenses, at the very least. But now, at 1am, I must prepare for my departure to the Welsh hills in but several hours; there are crucifi to pack, for example. Take care, dear reader. Have a cake this weekend.

So I begin my journal, and yet in two days I disconnect myself from the internet and sojourn to the mysterious, misted peaks of Snowdon. Is there a Welsh yeti? I fear I may soon find out. And the people - ! - the dark, sturdy Welsh, with their arcane language... a language not designed to accomodate the human tongue. The language of an elder race, whose survivors plot our ruin from the sealed slate mines and abandoned villages that are scattered throughout their cursed land? The language of an unholy race born of man and dragon, forged in hellish trysts among the rolling hills, in the great shadows of the gathering clouds, obscured from the sight of God?

I shall endeavour to investigate.

Coffee News: I have decided I prefer standard Nescafé to Carte Noire - the two options offered in the staff room of the library. There is no sophistication in instant coffee, merely utility. Setting aside Nescafé's unconscionable business practices and advertising campaigns, the granules themselves are coarse and honest. "We will keep you awake until it's time to go home," they promise, and nothing more. The temptation to spoon them directly into my mouth grows by the day. Why dilute coffee, after all?

Arrived this morning: the US DVD of The Bird with the Crystal Plumage. This I ordered after buying the UK version and noticing that scenes in the included trailer were not present in the main feature. A fine giallo despite the cuts; the US version must surely be better.

My choice site of the day: VideoLan Client (VLX). This is a cross-platform, open-source media player that handles a wide variety of codecs. On my iBook, it has replaced Quicktime (which can be very picky about what it plays) and now handles my DVDs as well; it ignores region coding, which is a Godsend - possibly literally. Mplayer is also well worth a look, but the native OS X version doesn't seem to handle DVDs. I use these programs to watch mindbending tales of terror such as "The Blood Bastard" and "They Shredded His Veins".

Many bloodcurdling thanks to abuchanx for my setup code. Andy, you will be one of the last against the wall. The wall will be a little sticky by then, but I think the advantages win out overall.