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Trick or treat retreat

So I'm writing this in the spare bedroom at the very top of the house. At the back of the house. In the portion of the house where to the casual street level observer it would seem that there was nobody in. So it's Hallowe'en again.

Before I go any further I need to clarify my position on Hallowe'en. I don't care one way or the other about it. Sure it's a vast, crass commercial enterprise. But what isn't? It's not like it's as much of a con-job as Christmas. If people want to dress up as ghouls then that's fine by me. Knock yourselves out, or poke your eye out with the end of your silly plastic trident that you paid ACTUAL MONEY for for some reason.

I have nothing to do with hallowe'en because I am neither a) a small child that's jonesing for sherbert or b) a student girl who ill-advisedly think that she looks hot in red satin. Likewise I've never had anything to do with trick or treating. I grew up in the wilds of rural Cornwall where trekking to the next house required the stamina of Paula Radcliffe and for the last few years have generally been at work on the night in question. So it never occurs to me to buy the treat part of the equation; not from any curmudgeonly sense of affront at having to, it simply never crosses my mind. And whilst I don't really have any fear of the trick part (having a shaved head and a convincing glare tends to exempt you, I find) I just feel awkward, answering the door to a crowd of expectant urchins and standing there going "um....sorry." Hence the hiding at the top of the house until the little bastards are all in bed, unable to sleep due to the refined sugars careening around their little systems.

Which is why I propose to go on retreat next year, by which I mean that I and other like-minded souls will be spending the evening in a pleasant restaurant, chatting idly about whatever crosses our minds and occasionally sighing with pleasure over phenomenal glasses of wine. You're welcome to join us. Unless you're dressed like a goblin.

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