Albino Tilda Swinton, Bears and Die Hard.

It seems there is something scarier than a flock of Tilda Swintons watching you whilst you put out the bins. Oh, certainly they move only when you’re not looking. That a stalking Tilda Swinton can find entrance to any house through the presence of open scissors is not under dispute. Indeed you are right to fear a Tilda Swinton’s ability to steal both happiness and loss through your tears. All these things and many more are rightly held as folklore and none of them help (as many a Tilda Swinton hunter will tell you, albeit with empty eyes stitched with rough garden twine), not when as now a Tilda Swinton emerges from amongst that great and creeping murder of Tilda Swintons, as the much feared Albino Tilda Swinton.

Yesterday the Albino Tilda Swinton was a monk seeking the first few chapters of Holy Blood And Holy Grail. The day before and she developed a serum to walk invisibly about Tolly Maw but y’know, so she said (in a voice that is many voices not quite together). This morning and she was Monsieur Zenith, cat-dabbling with Sexton Blake on the Rue le Frufru (or the bakers where they do buns, as it is known to anyone else). With Rod Hull she suffers from dreadful ennui and I fear then soon it will be blood, souls and all for the toff Arioch.

The problem with this is not so much the stop-motion movements of hand and face. Nor the sheer and overpowering sense that all things considered then still Tilda Swinton is almost without doubt going to leave only blood and a little hair of you if ever when drunk, you thought you were in (there). No, none of these nor the ability to cut glass with a kiss at fifteen short paces – it is and worse still, the bears.

Whether they are natural enemies or because when an Albino Tilda Swinton is made they hear it however far, there are and trying to look inoffensive in my garden – polar bears. Big ones. These are bears to whom you do not take a shotgun because that will only mean that you’ll then be hunted by a polar bear with a shotgun. And they’re gathering and they’re trying not to look at the Tilda Swintons as the Tilda Swintons pick at road kill or Findus Crispy Pancakes.

Several are already haunting the corner shop on top of giant Fox’s Glacier Mints. One wears sunglasses. Two have vests. Last night they all sat next door and watched Die Hard.

They’re going to count to three, there will be no four.