Hallow-mean

It turns out I’ve unwittingly shot myself in the foot a little bit.

As Halloween descends upon us, I have been tasked with decorating the house for Wednesday.

I hate Halloween.

I don’t mind it at work, because we can put spooky things in the rooms and watch people scream at them – the evil, hairy rat is the best £1 ever spent if I’m honest. But at home, I dislike it greatly.

I also don’t mind the delicious “seasonal” sausages, as I have made abundantly clear already.

Last year, though, I did put up everything that Carole had bought. All the light up ghosts and pumpkins, the skeleton that hangs on the door, the tinsel ghost (I still don’t understand tinselling Halloween). I put them all up. And Carole was so happy. Ridiculously happy. Stupidly ridiculously happy. At some tat in a bush.

But now this means I have to do it again. Because I “did such a good job last year”.

I don’t want to. I want to even less this year, as it’s half-term so the little sugar-fiends will be out and about even earlier. Which means I have to give them the sweets at the door. And I can’t do all that small talk about costumes and how they like nice/scary/whatever. I just want them to take some sweets and bugger off.

Maybe I’ll just leave the bowl of sweets on the doorstep, decorate everything and the sit with the lights off. Like a self-service Halloween.

As long as I scoop everything up before Carole comes home and make it look like I have been thoroughly enjoying every moment of it, I can probably get away with it!