Saying Boo to a Ghost

I’m not a dog person. I don’t like mess. I hate the smell of damp. I like my biscuit-coloured carpet free of muddy paw prints. I want to be able to see out of the lower 2 feet of the windows in my house. And they make me sneeze, wheeze and fill with all manner of unhealthy bodily fluids.

But if, let’s say, I did have a dog, I’d do all the fluffy-wuffy dog-owner things you have to do. I’d coo at puppies. I’d say, ‘oh he’s just being friendly’ whilst it gnaws down to the bone on a stranger’s shin.

But I’m sure if, for one night every year, I could send it out onto the street as part of a pack to knock on everyone’s door and ask for food, I’d do that too.

I’m not being a scrooge. I like carving pumpkins. I like the colours orange and black. I’m old enough to remember childrens’ TV witch Grotbags. I like Halloween.

And as child number 378 arrives at my door demanding chocolate, wearing a santa hat as his chosen costume, all I ask is that you say ‘thank you’. Oh, and that you take the nut ones I can’t eat.

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