At last we can lay it to rest

Grit's misery whinge-fest is almost complete.

Only one plastic pumpkin head, one half-chewed gingerbread house daubed with the special hell that is black icing, and 2,456 items of cheap candy to dispose of in the trash, and I can be done and dusted until next year.

But first, the party. Better get it over with. In a process which feels not unlike clubbing baby seals or beating up the Labrador, Squirrel makes me prepare by dressing me up. She says we must decide between the horns...


or the bats.

When they have chosen, and humiliated me better than I can do for myself, I get my own back. I say now you have chosen my lovely costume, if you want to go to this party, you're walking. It's a two-hour hike, over the mountain, past the glorious concrete factory, through the splendid building site, and round the amazing fish farms, so get your boots on.




Squirrel retaliates by insisting that I wear my horns of shame. I get one over on her by smiling all the way.



And then we arrive! Admittedly not before I have had a little grizzle about how I would be happier if Hallowe'en were about poetic slants of shadows, shades of light, strange unbidden noises, gentle curling leaves, and familiar nature, taking us by surprise. Not blood and splatter, for which there is no need. No one takes any notice of me.

There's more delight to be had with a spooky theme beach party alongside a dozen home ed kids than with ole mama misery guts.








See? There was a three-line whip on the costumes, and there was no escape.


But I get a little of my wish too, because when it's done, we have to walk a while to catch a ferry: up the hill, down to the bay, in the quiet and the dark, through the humid jungle night.