The Pumpkin Paradox

And so, as quickly as it came, Halloween has Hallo-been and Hallo-gone.This time around I decided to buck my yearly trend of switching all the lights out and barking through the letterbox, to get in on the action for the first time since the sad day I outgrew my Spiderman outfit.(That said it was probably for the best; the very next day my daughter started letting me drive her to school again). With the requisite two days of horizontal recuperation behind me, I've had some time to reflect and decide that it was an event worthy of Chronicling.

For the first time in her life I took my daughter round our neighbours doors to embark on the socially accepted scrounge-fest that is Trick or Treating. I wish I could say it was to be her first time knocking on the door of a stranger begging for food but, in my defence, I just really like lying in at the weekends. Week days too for that matter. There's a small part of me still harbours some dislike for the term 'trick or treating' but the whole affair has become so Americanised at this point, it just seems easier just to run with it. Every year I look out my window and see the outdoor decorations become more and more ostentatious. Every year the supermarkets become less and less subtle in whoring out their shelf space to plastic, Glow-in-the-dark tat and 'fun-size' chocolate bars. The whole affair has steamed onward to become almost as big a consumerist darling as Christmas itself. And yet each year Kwanzaa comes and goes with little to no fanfare. Doesn't seem fair really.

Even the once mighty turnip, pure and enigmatic symbol of all that was ever awesome about October the 31st is no stranger to the scornful march of time. With the pumpkin having become a steadily more commonplace produce, it's been left to watch helplessly from the sidelines as it's orange nemesis become the de facto choice of spooky lantern. Sure, pumpkins are easier to carve, easier to hollow and they're a far more regular shape. Granted, it may also take the best part of a week and numerous flesh wounds to carve even the most basic of facial features into a turnip, but it composes itself with a quiet dignity that the pumpkin could never hope to aspire to. All that, and when you're done with it, you're mum'll use it to make soup! Try that stunt with a pumpkin after it's spent the night as a lantern; Burnt, shit flavoured soup anyone? The turnip is quite simply a vegetable you can depend on when it matters most. They should give the thing a fucking knighthood, or put it on the national flag. I'd salute it.

Sadly, it quickly becomes clear, that as a turnip elitist, I rank myself among an obvious minority. For evidence of this, one need look no further than their nearest supermarket. No sooner have my local Tesco received their annual haul of pumpkins, they just as quickly find themselves sold out afterwards. It's funny to see a bland, day-glo vegetable become charged with the selling prestige normally reserved for products like Buzz Lightyear and Furbies. This neatly neatly brings me to the titular topic of this piece, the pumpkin paradox.

As much as I may piss, grumble and moan,(No no, believe it or not, even I complain from time to time)) about the scandalous ordeal the turnip has had to endure, even I myself have become a traitorous pumpkin convert. The arthritic bone damage in my hands is to such an extent that the lengthy, tedious ordeal of laboriously gouging at a turnip is not a viable one. While, in previous years, I have mostly celebrated Halloween from behind my couch with the lights off and curtain drawn, I always make a point of picking up a pumpkin. There's just something undeniably cathartic and pleasurable about carving a goofy face into their thick, leathery hides. But it's when you factor in both their scarcity and high demand that things start to become problematic. The only way to guarantee securing yourself one of the much coveted squash, is with an early purchase. You are then faced with two , equally unappealing options.

1. Leave the carving to the latest possible point before your lantern will be needed. Running the risk of leaving yourself a soggy, over-ripened Pumpkin to carve.
2. Carve the pumpkin on or around your day of purchase. And pray to Jack Skellington it holds up till the night it's needed
   

Whichever option I plump for in the end, my end result, come the 31st, looks a little something like this:

 So, with that torturous axiom now off my chest, what about the night itself and the shenanigans that ensued? As I mentioned before it was arguably Julia's first 'proper' Halloween, she was dressed up like a witch (replete with pointy hat and broomstick) and she was raring to go. Whilst the Cul-De-Sac I live in is far from large, I still felt it necessary to take minor precautions, just in case my creaky legs crapped out on me. That precaution took the form of Julia's Uncle Bevvy (Not a real Uncle, merely an appointed one in the manner of all dear friends to parents the world over) accompanying us, in a cat-like state of readiness, should I suddenly need someone to drag me back home. Also along for the ride was Julia's school-friend Danny, who's mother also happens to be our neighbour. He's a sweet, likeable kid with a pleasant demeanour but god damn he's high-spirited and boisterous.A large part of the evening was spent chasing him off the main road as he zipped around recklessly, and apologising profusely as he ran straight into the house of everyone kind enough to open their door to us. The only way I'll be taking him trick or treating next year will be if his mother provides a large burlap sack to drag him round the doors in. On the plus side his behaviour was enough to convince Uncle Bevvy that he never, ever wants to reproduce. A fact which I've spent a number of years assuring him would be for the greater good.

A little unruly behaviour in the grip of a sugar rush I was prepared for, but the way in which the night impacted on me I could never have expected; I got to meet and pleasantly converse with nearly all of my neighbours, most of whom I previously wouldn't even know to look at. Now things have completely turned around, to the point where I can barely poke my nose through the letterbox with being approached for a spot of pleasant chit-chat. It makes for a far more pleasant atmosphere to bustle to and from my car in. And, should I find myself not in the mood for some idle comments on the weather or my general health, avoiding it is simply a matter of removing my trousers before I step out my front door. Then all I have to contend with is a hurried wave as they pass me by, eyes fixed upon the ground. Nothing kills the conversation quite so efficiently as a conspicuous cock-bulge and some minor pee stains.

In summary, it seems my veiled attempt at scoring my daughter some free sweets turned out to be pure social networking in it's most basic form. With neither a face nor a book to be seen. Well- apart from the faces of the people who met us at their doors, and our faces too I suppose. Also, there was this one guy who had a small bookcase in his hall. You know what, who cares? I got a drumstick lollipop for the first time in about fifteen years and in the end, that's all that really matters.