I’ll admit, my first impulse was to arm myself to the teeth. Quite swiftly, I dumped that idea because years of failed skittles attempts have taught me that I can’t aim to save my life.
Then, I thought I’d build a wall – something large and imposing to separate myself from the world. But that’s no way to live, and I’m not running for office.
I thought of getting a bigger, louder dog, a spitting breed that frightens people and needs a good muzzling would do the job, but I still have neighbours.
I was quite proud of the idea to hire an out-of-work actor to stand in my garden, done up as a scary-arse clown for the evening, and terrify the little darlings into moving swiftly on. On the other hand, that would leave me smokeless for the evening because I wouldn’t want to go outside with that.
So, as I glance through my kitchen window, the egg-juice sliding towards the sill in the morning light, I am obliged to think back over the course of my evening, and the twenty-two egg-free years that preceded it.
In a house with four dogs, some of whom have severe difficulties with the concept of other people, I didn’t put a pumpkin outside the door, so as not to encourage a deluge of kiddiewinks. The house was not in total darkness but there were no visible indications of willing participation in the Halloween fun. However, my kitchen light was on and I had a big old bowlful of sweeties for them because I’m nothing if not a good sport.
In short, I wasn’t going to encourage them, but I was ready if they were pushed for diabetes-inducing loveliness.
There were sounds outside of an army of kids, on the march for free sweeties, but none rang on my bell, none knocked on my door, there was no call from the street to give me any idea of what might have been planned out in tiny, sugared-up heads.
A dull burst, like someone had farted on the street corner. Another. Not a clue from which bottom it had issued, but none of my business. I left it alone. Another burst. And then a splatting crunch.
I charged out into the darkness, and a small collective of tweens shone a torch in my face, panicked, squealed and ran across the road.
I yelled the first thing that came to mind.
“What are you playing at? I have a sick, old lady in this house!!”
Well, I’ve had a cold, and I suspect I’m pretty ancient to the kids.
If a man’s home is his castle, a gay girl’s bungalow is her theatre.
I have a year now to plan out coating brussel sprouts in chocolate and dusting dog treats in sugar, while cackling away as the weirdo on the corner. If I’m to have hen-fruit thrown at my theatre, I’m going to damn well earn it.