It’s a calendar favourite across the globe, yet in my home growing up, All Hallows’ Eve was never really a big deal. My mother would go all out for Christmas, be the first to the bubbly for New Year’s, and be certain to attempt to coax everyone into a chocolate-induced coma every Easter. But Halloween? Nah.
It wasn’t even the fancy dress element. When my parents were in their forties it seemed like every other week they were heading to some costume party with revolving sets of other couples (writing that down for the first time, perhaps I should now be asking more questions of this. Then again, I think not.
..).
My parents were both always ten pounds of fun in a five-pound bag, and while, no, they weren’t particular fans of creatures of the night or anything overly macabre, neither of them had anything against the spirit of Halloween per se. Though, thinking back now, I tell something of a lie there. My dad (who recently, dear readers, turned 70 – happy birthday, old chap!) has always had an issue with trick or treating.
I remember him once describing it as an overly-Americanised form of begging that, much more importantly, encouraged small children to approach the doors of strangers after dark. A dream scenario, he suggested, for those grown-ups with the most evil of intentions. Suffice to say, I never played trick or treat as a kid.
Though, truth be told, I don’t feel like I’ve necessarily missed out on something – particularly as, when my twenties came alo.