Last updated 19:22, Thursday, 30 October 2008

I WONDER if we get grumpier as we get older because we view our own childhoods through rose-coloured glasses?

I am posing this question because I am ready to write a grumpy column about what I consider the worst week in the year – this week, the one containing Halloween and Guy Fawkes Night.

Bonfire night is the worst, because it is not just a night. For at least a week before the event and a week afterwards there are fireworks going off everywhere.

Despite any laws of the land, kids can be found throwing them around.

At worst people get hurt and at best – and it is no best, as far as I am concerned – poor family pets tremble in corners and board the nervous breakdown express.

I hate it! I want to ban it! Why do we commemorate a plot to blow up Parliament anyway? Are we celebrating the fact that Guy Fawkes failed or the fact that he tried? How many of us know one single thing about why he tried and what the politics of the time were? How many kids going in to buy fireworks even know what the whole thing is about?

In my day... – and here come the rose-coloured spectacles – I lived in Zambia, where we had even less reason to acknowledge the gunpowder plot.

Yet every November 5 we would have a big barbecue at our house and all the neighbours and mum’s nursing friends would be there and we would eat, drink and watch fireworks and have a great time.

I’ve adapted the whole scenario to confine it to only one night. I’ve conveniently forgotten the boys who kept jumping jacks for weeks and threw them at us at every opportunity. I’ve created a picture of children standing well back while capable, super efficient fathers dealt with the fireworks and followed every procedure to the letter.

The sad truth is that the booze flowed in Zambian parties and I am sure most of the adults were nowhere near sober by the end of the night.

And I will tell you something – after spending last New Year in Italy, I am even more disinclined to complain about our fireworks habits. The small southern city we were in became a virtual war zone on New Year’s Eve with the loudest bangers I have ever heard being thrown from balconies at people and cars.

Our hosts told us that nobody ever went out until well after midnight because it was too scary.

I still hate it but I’ve now convinced myself that I don’t have the right to stop other people having fun. So go ahead and have your fireworks but ONLY on November 5 and NOT near my poor cat!

I am allowed to hate Halloween without being a grumpy old woman.

Why on earth have we adopted this silly American festival?

I was listening to someone the other day commenting on how menacing trick or treat could be, especially on older people. And it is quite right. A cute seven-year-old with a sheet over his head is one thing. But I know, even in Flimby, where I live, you get older teenagers who have perhaps put a cut-out mask on their faces coming to the door, wanting some reward for totally minimum effort.

My beliefs also mean I don’t believe in or approve of the way Halloween is celebrated and this leads to conflict in our house.

I would much rather explain this at the door but my husband says you can’t turn kids away – and he is probably right.

So, by the time you read this, I’ll have bought some sweets and will hand them out with a smile that more closely resembles a grimace and be glad that Christmas is just around the corner - because there’s one I can celebrate!

And just one last moan: They add insult to injury over Halloween here. I love pumpkin. But it seems nobody eats it in this country and the only time you can ever buy it is at Halloween – to cut up and make jack-o-lanterns.