Actually, last night she wore no velvety cape but a tidy ensemble of cross-dressing inspiration: man's jacket, crisp shirt and garish yellow tie, all last seen on the Maggie Thatcher Spitting Image puppet that desired to be Churchill. For this alone I would have sat through a TV charade. Indeed, Yvette's various manifestations offer a running narrative of an ego struggling with the challenges of sharing (camera time). She even shares camera duties now, striding about with a tiny portable, introducing her underlings and tall husband Karl who has aged markedly in recent times. Or else, that was a white misty nimbus about his thinning locks.
The troll-like woman I think called Kath, who produced most of the screams in previous shows and did Yvette's makeup, has been replaced by a pretty, non-screaming near-mute who now does Yvette's makeup (lay off the kohl, dearie). Various hairy hunks bearing camera cargo grunt concordance with Yvette's every word ("DID YOU SEE THAT?!" "Yes."). For welcome contrast, the bald man who I believe is nicknamed Pebbles by MH fans - because he's the suspected astral thrower of stones when empty space fails to fill - has survived Yvette's latest cull.
In place of a medium we glimpsed an aged beard billed as a demonologist. He looked pleasant enough. Sadly he had nothing to do, was quickly forgotten about but made up the numbers when Yvette required crowd shadow scenes.
Perhaps the most interesting new addition is the man at the end - the Ofcom-required sceptic - who resembles the late Syd Barrett, of Pink Floyd fame. Long rock star hair, pretty face; trailer-trash clobber. His monotone instructed that poltergeists may or may not exist - "it's all a matter of belief." May I be the first to announce that Syd Barrett is not dead at all. He lives. Despite appearances.