Ok Dads, it’s time to put your running shoes on.
Sit and watch the TV by all means but make sure you’re ready to get outside in a hurry. Wear a thick coat. Keep your kid’s baseball bat by the front door.
Ready? It’s dark outside now. Here they come. You can hear them laughing in the street.
Get set. It’s all gone eerily quiet.
‘Bang!’ on the window, ‘Bang!’ there’s another one.
GO! GO! GO! Out of the lounge, jump the cat, across the hall, dodge the wife, grab the baseball bat, fumble with the door, that’s it – you’re out into the cold, Halloween night.
An egg whistles past your ear but you keep going. A group of kids scatters and starts running down the hill, screeching with delight that they’ve Got A Live One. You’re already breathless but you keep going after them.
A large kid in a thick coat carrying a rolling pin is running shoulder-to-shoulder next to you, you get ready to bat him but realise, just in time, that it’s Mr O’Connor from number 33.
“Yes, mate,” he gasps, “we’ll get the buggers this year!”
But already the kids you’re after have disappeared, some down the alley by the railway, others into the estate where they live. The only ones left are some tiddlers and a few tarty girls who are laughing at you. Not worth using the bat on them.
So it’s back to your street. A couple of policmen look at you suspiciously from a passing patrol car.
Get the hose out and try to wash the eggs away.
Another year of failure. Probably just as well – there’s now so much pent up rage that you’d probably disfigure or kill some poor little sod. And didn’t you and your mates do stuff like this before you became ‘responsible’?
Anyway, not long to wait until Firework night, or should I say ‘Firework week’. There’s plenty of preparation to keep you busy there. Bucket of water under the letterbox. Make sure the hose is connected. Find some sort of hat to protect your hair from ignition. Sedate the cat.
Get ready for the Fun.