Halloween, by contrast, was a very low-key affair, but I remember the turnip lanterns that we carved with grotesque faces and lit with candles and the ghost stories that were told, before bedtime, that rendered sleep impossible.
Here’s a couple of bits of nonsense specially for Halloween.
Gordon was too macho to go to the doctor when the dog bit him on that Halloween. No doctor: no tetanus. Shit happens and the bite wasn’t serious.
The dog itself didn’t seem particularly serious either: a big ungainly mutt with a daft expression, wearing the remnants of a suit and tie. The clothing puzzled Gordon.
At home he bathed the wound with disinfectant. Neat puncture marks. Nothing to worry about.
Worry set in a week later when the moon was full. Hair sprouted on Gordon’s hands; his teeth became fangs; a reckless hunger overwhelmed him. Stumbling outdoors in pyjamas, he bounded across the Common, driven by an instinct beyond his control.
What’s happening to me? he howled. And howled and howled and howled.
Check out Warren Zevon singing Werewolves of London at:-