The one thing they never tell you about zombies is how inflammable we are. Being undead, our blood doesn’t flow, and our skin doesn’t exude any oils or gunk; it means you don’t get spots, but the expenditure on moisturiser is huge. We don’t actually decay, because decay is a process, and we are in suspension, frozen in the moment of our death for all time. We don’t age, we don’t rot, but our bodily moisture evaporates and we suffer constantly from dehydration. You can always tell the zombie in a supermarket because of the pile-up of Evian in the trolley and the tubes of aloe vera lotion and shea butter. We don’t bother with the anti-wrinkle stuff but we favour factor 50 sunscreen winter and summer and we’re suckers for any cream described as ‘nourishing’. Ludicrous really; we persistently believe that our skin will do the job which our digestive system can no longer perform. The living snap up anti-ageing creams even though science confirms they don’t work and we’re just as gullible. Being undead may make you immortal – after a fashion – but it doesn’t make you any smarter.
Mostly, the dryness thing isn’t a serious problem. We don’t have open fires in the home, obviously, and we aren’t likely to join jolly groups around a campfire outdoors. (Zombie boy scouts are extremely rare.) The biggest hazard of the year is Bonfire Night. On the fifth of November, sensible zombies stay indoors, out of range of sparklers, bangers and blazing torches.
Of course, I’ve never been sensible.