Dracula sunk in despair.  Dracula drunk before noon.  Dracula wandering the magnificent, draughty rooms of his castle, wrapped in a heavy blanket and swigging from a bottle of three hundred year old plum brandy.  Dracula alone, his former brides all having left for the consolations of plastic surgery and younger, richer men (footballers, mostly). Dracula as unwanted tourist attraction, then.  Like the solitary old bear in a failed municipal zoo:  “Oh, but how he used to dance, Elisabeta!  Before the war! When there were trams, etc.” Dracula as embarrassing reminder of the bad old, good old days. Dracula as your grandparents’ favourite sideboard, which they insisted your parents take with them when they moved into their first home. Dracula as metaphor, endlessly. Dracula drifting between holiday resorts along the Black Sea, brooding in spectacular examples of post-Stalinist Soviet architecture. Dracula pondering the monuments to progress and the will of the people. So many atonal concrete symphonies! So many teenagers buying ice creams! Dracula at his Dacha. Dracula seen at the window, staring out at the rain falling softly across the lake (the endless, metaphorical rain).  Dracula visiting his travel agent. Dracula on an arctic cruise to see the northern lights, in the land where the sun never rises.  Dracula stuck up a Norwegian Fjord for two weeks with a party of elderly ladies, throwing himself again and again upon their dry, wrinkled necks…