There was a slight delay while I texted Radio 5 Live to complain about them asking listeners to get in touch with them about the tricks they had played when there had been no treats. They hadn't got much response. I wrote 'Good to hear that Radio 5 Live listeners are more responsible than the presenters. If our sweets run out before 7 and somebody throws a brick through the window I'll be in touch.' I signed it as Anonymous as you never know if any Radio 4 listeners had tuned in during the pm programme.
By the time I'd written it they'd had many similar texts and became all defensive. They ought to know better than anybody that it's a politically correct world out there especially tonight with all that witch hunting going on.
Somebody must have been bussing in the Trick or Treaters. It was as if the pretend scabs I had put on my forehead had brought in flying pickets from both near and far. I had to drive to the garage to get more confectionery. These had to be bagged as unlike the originals they weren't in packets. I didn't want to spread disease and pestilence amongst the young despite the evening's evidence that like the home made jelly beans they were already well set.
I felt like an errant husband on an errand to buy garage flowers on the wife's birthday after a night on the tiles - on a serious mission of omission after an emission. (Please, it could have been worse. The Rogering Thesaurus comes out with discharge, release, outpouring, outrush, leak, excretion, secretion, ejection - the sort of words with post Weinstein hindsight that should have been describing past goings on by dicks and cheaters at Party Conferences.
The youngsters had obviously been around. One young fella on setting the bug through its routine said 'They had one of those in the Care Home' not only proving that ASDA isn't ageist but also reminding me that I'd met most of the residents the previous Saturday en route to the surgery for the Flu jab.
It was like that scene in the film Witness where a trickle of Amish became a flood though they were on their way to a barn not to a surgery and were moving rather more quickly than my generation who were hoping not to die before they get older nor fade away in a hospital corridor or in a queuing ambulance while suffering from whatever as yet unknown strain of Christmas flu is served up putting a further very well known strain on the NHS.
'You don't think people are trying to put us down do you? Just because we are still getting around.' I said to the missus. She didn't hear as her competitive nature had her sprinting past a group of ninety somethings to beat the queue. 'What did you say?' She shouted. 'Baby Boomers or not' I bellowed 'I'm off to ASDAs or is it ASDA's? to get my jab there. It may be a fiver but somebody needs to make a stand to stop this degenerational divide they want to exaggerate.'
She disappeared into the surgery. A few minutes later she came back out and said 'Can you get us a bottle of Prosecco while you're there?' 'Is that to celebrate your victory?' I posed. 'No, I think I might have a few symptoms later and I'll need to keep up my fluid intake.'
