I hate Halloween. Hate it. Hate it. Especially the increasingly common, infuriating and silly American-import of Trick or Treat. If I understand it, and quite honestly, I can’t really believe anyone could think this is a good idea, any Tom, Dick or Harry Potter can, on the thirty-first of October, hammer on your door and for no other reason that they’ve disturbed your peaceful evening expect to receive some sort of prize. And, if they are not satisfied, pelt your house with eggs and flour. If you’re particularly lucky they’ll add a wonky scratch to the side of your car too. Marvellous. Simply marvellous. What fun.
Each year I dread it more. As I slipped out of the railway station tonight, I could barely walk twenty paces without tripping over some ghoul or goblin. I’ve never seen so many of the Undead in one place. Not since a compulsory early morning seminar on “Health and Safety in the workplace: How paperclips can kill” at least. In spite of the lanterns and ridiculous hats, no-one seemed to be having a fun time. One particularly truculent girl, whose idea of a costume was an extra layer of eye-liner and a frighteningly short skirt, stormed past me cursing the people pretending to be out and kicking their doors for good measure.
Thank Heavens, I thought to myself, that my beloved wife understands how I feel about tonight and will have prepared the house accordingly - curtains drawn, lights out and everyone remaining absolutely silent. I hurried home.
I couldn’t drive into my street. There seemed to a party going on. I could see it all quite clearly because of the light streaming from my house. All the curtains were open and every lamp on. In pride of place, an enormous pumpkin, hollowed out and holding half a dozen candles. The door was wide open and no-one seemed to be hiding at all.
I fought my way through the crowds. It wasn’t so much of a line as a scrum, operating on the same principle as water boiling in a kettle. After getting to the front, witches and wizards percolated away only to rejoin at the back. More than a couple of times some little urchin wearing a sheet kicked my shins and told me to queue up like everyone else. One or two wags said how good my costume was, if a bit old-fashioned. In my day, imps like that would have been caned, if they weren’t Down the Mines already or in the trenches with a bugle, that is. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, really I don’t.
Various members of my immediate and extended family stood outside my house like Lords of the Manor. Little S, normally spooked by the photograph of a wrinkled politician in the newspaper, stood chuckling at the stream of Zombies confronting her.
‘Thank Heavens you’re home!’ Cried a slightly frazzled T.
‘We didn’t have any sweets,’ she said, ‘so I’m giving them money. Have you got any? We’re just about to run out and there’s some angry looking pixies over there.’
Apparently, I can do quite a good ghost-like ‘White as a Sheet’ myself.
Wait a minute. You mean we invented Trick or Treating?
And here I was blaming all of our most tedious customs on you people.
Whoops! Sorry about that.
(You are responsible for the carolers demanding figgy pudding, though--aren't you?)
Posted by: Poppy | Sunday, 18 November 2007 at 02:59 AM