There will, of course, be  princesses with blood on their faces and blood on their dresses, some sort of hideous accident or more commonly murder; a wretched  rake  condemning them to this world; the world of the undead, uncomfortable  and unsettled, compelled to tramp the streets of Clifton begging for alms, in the darkness, always in the darkness.

I fear the dark, and the princesses and the trailing Mums; chittering on the edge of the shade of the outdoor light, begging for sweets, no tricks any more, all fucking treats, for them. And all we see, when the doorbell rings is a mental fucking dog barking and tearing all over the house spreading his long coat shitty smell. Doors slam, I curse the dog;

“SHUT UP”

Doors open, sweets are offered, collected in baskets; they turn and walk off, 6 abreast up the street. On to the next one. 

Fortunately myself and Mrs T are going to a sausage party tonight, so my son will be in charge.