I t’s Halloween. My wife announces we’ve got people coming for supper.
“We were going to go out,” she says. “But I think I’ll get them round for a takeaway.”
“A takeaway’s a bit lame,” I say.
“I’m just sick of spending money,” my wife says.
“Cooking is cheaper than a takeaway,” I say.
“You want to cook?” she says. “You cook.”
“We could have fish. It would still be cheaper.”
“Fine, get fish,” she says. “And a pumpkin. I’ll make you a list.”
My excursion begins in failure: the supermarket has no pumpkins. I can’t understand this. I was here two days ago, when you couldn’t move for them: pumpkin stacked upon pumpkin, higher than a man.
I try two more places, with no luck. Everywhere I go people are wearing happy, smug expressions, as if to say, “I bought my pumpkin two days ago.” I quit looking and head for the fish shop.
I’m consulting my list as I walk, in preparation for the transaction. I find buying fish a little stressful; there is something about me that tries the patience of fishmongers. When I look up, I see I’ve reached the corner. I turn around.
I scan the shop fronts as I pass them until I reach the other corner. I stop and walk back again, very slowly this time. I stop. Crowds of tiny witches and wizards flow round me. I feel completely disoriented. This can’t be happening, I think. I’ve misplaced the fish shop.
Eventually I find it by isolating its tiled frontage. But there are no fish inside, just people sitting on stools drinking juice with seeds in it. I want to bang on the windows. I need fish! I want to shout. Nobody needs juice!
I call my wife, but she doesn’t answer. I start walking toward the only place I can think of: a giant food emporium, a place I never visit for fear they’ll turn me away for being underdressed. As soon as I set foot inside its magnificent atrium, I realise my mistake, but then I notice they have pumpkins.
Not many; just a few damaged examples, the remnants of what must have once been an impressive pumpkin display. I put one under my arm and head for the fish counter. The man weighs my fish, then says a price that stops my heart.
“Where were you?” my wife says when I walk in. “You’ve been gone three hours.”
“So, it’s no longer cheaper than a takeaway,” I say. She spies the sturdy paper bags I’m carrying.
“What have you done?” she shouts, extracting the receipt.
“The fish shop’s gone!” I shout.
“You didn’t have to get fish!”
“I rang you for permission to change course,” I say, “and you didn’t pick up. So really this is your fault.”
The youngest one walks in.
“What gwan,” he says.
“Your father is an idiot,” my wife says. “And I’m in a rage.”
“What happened to this pumpkin?” he says.
“Three pounds 50, that cost,” I say.
“And now you’ve got to cook everything as well,” she says.
“That’s my problem,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” she says, crunching up a sturdy paper bag.
“Are you throwing that away?” I say. “They were, like, a quid each.”
“Arrgh!” she shouts, storming out of the room.
Alone with a sharp knife, I turn my misshapen pumpkin round and round, trying to find a face in its pitted moonscape. I carve out a retching visage, and arrange it so he’s sicking up his pumpkin guts on to the doorstep, the better to express my disgust and self-loathing. Then the middle one puts an empty beer bottle next to him, so he just looks drunk.
