When exactly did Halloween turn into such a monstrously big thing? How much bigger can it get? Will it eventually overwhelm Christmas? I find it all a bit much. A couple of times, I’ve spent Halloween in the US, where there seemed to be a collective leave-taking of senses. Homes were done up to the nines. Children were plainly mad for it, but not as much as their parents who often had wild looks in their eyes. Really frightening stuff. Back then, I could smile indulgently while I enjoyed the spectacle; it was reassuring to know that in Blighty we were above that kind of thing. But now we could give them a run for their money.
As we always used to say about Christmas, Halloween seems to start earlier every year. Pumpkins came rolling into sight a good month ago. And last Tuesday, fully nine days out from the main event, I walked into a pub near Swansea that was already fully decorated. Ghosts, plastic spiders, cobwebs – you know the drill.
I noticed this kicking in 15 years ago in west London. I was living in a house in Hammersmith on a residential street of terraced three-storey properties. Some were million-pound homes, others multi-million pound homes with basements excavated to accommodate playrooms, cinemas, snooker tables, Olympic-sized swimming pools etc. There were houses converted into three nice flats; and many-roomed doss-houses where all manner of dodgy stuff was assumed to go on.
Somehow these disparate socio-economic groups managed, despite living cheek by jowl, to avoid any social interaction with each other for 364 days of the year. But the 365th day was Halloween, when everything changed. Like characters in the Thriller video, various horror characters of all social classes emerged into the darkness intent on terrorising the neighbours. I don’t know which I found more terrifying, the harrowingly posh or the downright threatening. I remember opening the door to an extremely well-spoken witch, flanked by several immaculate little ghouls. One was thrust towards me. “Go on, Evie darling, your turn,” said the witch.
“Trick or treat,” demanded Evie, sweetly.
I handed over some sweets from a bargain tub.
“My daughter’s an Evie,” I said. “It’s short for Evelyn.”
“Evelyn?” snorted the witch. “My Evie is Evangelina,” she said, lengthening the penultimate syllable for great effect: E-van-gel-EEEEE-nah.
That told me.
As the evening wore on, the kids became progressively less sweet and more demanding. The last knock came gone 11 o’clock. Three angry-looking men, all taller than me, asked me not very politely to give them a treat or, in so many words, face the consequences. I knew sweets wouldn’t cut it. I ran to the kitchen and got a four-pack of lager out of the fridge. They took it with a grunt that suggested they were less grateful to me than I should have been to myself for coming up with something to get me off the hook. I live in a flat now. It’s easier like that.
