Sunday, 30 October 2016

Iyer's trick or treat.

I don't recall precisely when the custom of trick or treating first took hold in Fulham. One moment it was all ye olde Cockney cries of  'pennies for the Guy', then, abruptly, it was sullen, entitled, demands for 'candy'.
I don't suppose anyone will knock on my door tomorrow. 
I scare the kids too much. 
Not just them, I scare their helicopter Moms.
I really get into the spirit of things.
Even dress up

Why am I so universally shunned?
All I said was 'Oh how adorable you all look- just like my little boy. He died- not from eating too much candy- but too little. Malnutrition is a terrible thing. This Halloween, I see, it is the little children who have risen up to go door to door, to distribute candy to starving Hindus. Blessed art thou and blessed be the womb that bore you for you have ministered unto my piteous starvation. Come, thou little angels of the Light, let me embrace you! Why do you run from me? Are those your mothers there standing behind you? Blessed amongst women art the SUV driving Sloane Ranger Soccer Moms!  May they succor me with Single Malt. You know the one I mean. The good stuff you meanly hide when having the neighbors over.'
I suppose I should just accept that this year too, I'll get no treats on Halloween.
Should have changed my name to George Monbiot and written shite for the Guardian.
As should we all.
As should we all.

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