It’s Halloween down under, by which I mean it’s bright and hot and there’s the occasional plastic skull or bit of cobweb around the streets. My workplace actually makes a pretty big deal of Halloween, with a spooky morning tea and some fantastically creative finger, rat and eyeball cakes. However, this is mostly due to the brilliant and slightly eccentric Scottish lady who operates as Chief Organiser.

It’s not a big thing here, but trick-or-treating is burgeoning. Every year about this time they discuss it on the radio. You get the mothers of young kids calling in saying “it’s just a bit of fun, and the kids get to meet their neighbours.” You get others calling in saying “why should I have lollies ready to give some kid who calls to my door? This is ridiculous, it’s American, it’s part of our entitlement culture and it’s just a silly trend the kids have copied off TV. Oh kids today, I tell you, will be the end of us.”

Somebody, usually the presenter will then point out that actually, it’s Celtic in origin. I always want to call in at this point and say that specifically, it’s Irish (and Scottish) and the Americans copied it from us (and, to be fair, probably upped the standard of the costumes somewhat). I want to tell them that my Mam used to go trick-or-treating when she was a kid around the inner city suburbs of Dublin. They didn’t, of course, call it trick-or-treating at the time. They used to knock on doors and say “Help the Halloween party!” So the Americans may have come up with a catchier slogan, too.

I want to tell them about when I was a kid- the excitement of dressing up as a skeleton, Margaret Thatcher or, as in the case of my brother-in-law, a Christmas tree. I want to tell them of the fun of making a costume with your Mam after your homework was done, of the buzz of going around from house to house with your friends and ringing the door.  Total strangers would give you chocolate (great), sugary candy (good) or, from those health conscious or lacking in joy, nuts (bit of a let down). -Or a worst of all a Banana! (ed, MG)

I want to tell them about my irrational fear, every year, of the bangers and fireworks – of the petrified howling dogs, of the stories that used to go around the playground about mischievous kids inserting bangers in letterboxes, school toilets and various domestic animals.

I want to tell them about the older local kids going around to every home and business in the preceding weeks asking for (and sometimes just taking) any spare wood they could find to build a bonfire. I want to tell them about the eerie but exciting feeling of going down the road to the bonfire with your Dad, standing around staring open-mouthed at this huge focal-point that was burning in middle of a field in the middle of the night, of the oddness of the whole neighbourhood all standing there together in front of this flaming mass enjoying the heat, eating apples and talking in hushed tones as if the ghosts might hear us.

“No it’s American! It’s just like the culture of tipping that’s come over here from the states. I’m not getting my kids involved in that rubbish!” Well okay, fine. But I’m telling you your kids are missing out. Now please excuse me please because I need to nip down to K Mart and Krispy Kreme.