Sherlocks Cafe Flowergate Whitby

On an afternoon when a rank mist was rolling through
the ruined Whitby Abbey and Dracula was hopefully
preoccupied, my thoughts had once again turned to
light refreshment. The place was certainly a pleasant
enough scene reminiscent of a drawing room in a Jane
Austen novel. But this was a Goth weekend and many of
the participants were not at all as I imagined. There was
no blood or pierced lips or nostrils. It was also comforting
to observe that the shapely necks of these ladies, which
endured as close inspection as discretion would permit
in a public place, showed no sign of dental intrusion.
Perhaps that was to come later although a full moon,
if any, was meanwhile clothed in heavy shrouds.