I WAS dreading Halloween. Not that I have anything against ghoulies and ghosties and usually the thing that goes bump in the night is me, as I stagger to the bathroom.
Which is better than my wife Maria who, if she wakes up in the early hours, assumes it's morning.
I have followed her downstairs more than once to find her brewing tea and just in time to stop her making breakfast.
“Well what time is it?”
Anyway, I had prepared for trick or treat, and had a big bagful of fun size chocolate bars and buttons to give to any children brave enough to knock on the door of Old Grumpy, when Maria said: “You do realise what night it is?”
“Halloween?” I said, with one eyebrow sarcastically raised. Another seven inches and I could have been Roger Moore.
“United are playing Chelsea.”
“Oh, flipping heck,” I said. Or words to that effect. My sarcastic eyebrow wilted.
“It's all right,” she said. “I'll answer the door.”
Which put me in a bit of a quandary.
“Well, when you give the stuff out, will you get rid of the Crunchies first and try to hold back on the Cadbury's Buttons?”
“Because I like Buttons.”
Halloween is my excuse to over-buy and stock up on those two-for-one offers so there are lots left for me.
“All right,” she said. “But one thing you must promise.”
She had me over a barrel if I didn't want the match disrupted. But what did she want? New plunger for the sink? A bottle of Chanel? A weekend in Paris?
“Watch your language when I answer the door. If the match is anything like Sunday's, you'll have children running home screaming they've met the Bogeyman.”