The Zombie is Toast

I am told I cannot go trick or treating because it's against, The Rules. We are eating spaghetti bolognese made almost entirely of giant marrow, apart from the spaghetti. It is horrible.
'You might upset some old people,' says Mum because she is very keen on old people.
'Granpa Jack is old and he's taking a group of old people out to get treats.'
'He is not!' shouts Dad.
'He is,' I say 'and he says they're all going to be demons and wear red pants and tights.' Mum gives a little scream. 'AND, Dexter is going with his dad, Mr Dooley and he's dressing up as a gut eating zombie,' I inform them as I suck up one piece of spaghetti at a time. Mum gives Dad a look across the table. 'It's true' I say. I can sense them wobbling now under the power of my fantastic arguing. 'Furthermore, (their eyes widen with wonderment at my cleverness, I am on a roll) Mr Dooley is going to collect as many sweets as he can so that he can donate them to the school tuck shop.' Wait for it.
'There isn't a school tuck shop,' says Dad. 'For the very good reason that all your teeth will drop out.'
I pause and savour the moment. Here we go. 'There will be when he becomes school governor.'


So, I am Count Wilfredo complete with excellent 75p fangs, black cloak from Tesco and a giant bucket for snatching all the sweets from under the nose of the Dooley zombie. Mum is a ghost. She found one of my old sheets and cut eyeholes out. She didn't notice the spiderman on the back and I haven't told her.
Outside, Mum strides down the High St. She is walking as though she is wearing a business suit.
'We'll just call on people we know,' she says, 'then we won't alarm the elderly. Tuck shop indeed!' she adds. She is a very brisk ghost, flapping her arms and twirling round all the time and is already surprising all the baby children out with their responsible adults. 'Sorry didn't see you there!' she tries to pick up one of the children she has knocked over.
'Monster!' says its parent which is not technically correct.
'Better keep an eye out for Mr Dooley,' Mum says, rushing away from the scene of the crime, ' - don't want him hogging all the sweets!' She is trying to sound jolly about sweets now which is a dead giveaway. She wants his blood.
I spot Dexter who is bandaged up to his eyeballs in loo roll.
'How many sweets have you got then?' I yell.
'Not quite enough for a school tuck shop,' shouts Dexter.
'Nearly there, though!' yells the impressive zombie next to him. 'Bet even your mad parents will vote for me when they hear about how much free stuff I've got for the school.'
He holds up a bulging bin bag.
'Er, maybe,' I say. Mum sidles up behind me.
'Bet your Mum will spit bricks when she hears about this, eh?' he yells.
'Er ...' I er.
'Better than her DISGUSTING organic veg crud she makes for all those poor old people ...'
'Um ...'
'They feed it to their cats! And even the cats won't eat it! Ha!'
'Well ...'
'Aghhhhhhhh!' The spiderman ghost flies past me.
The zombie is toast.



'

Geroge And Me Have Things To Talk About

Anyway, we are having a visit from Grandpa Jack' s sister called Hatty. She is even more Irish than Grandpa Jack because she actually lives in Ireland all the time. We have never met her but Grandpa Jack says she speaks english and likes to boss people around and tell them what is going wrong in their lives and how much better her life is. She does not travel very often because she does not like to fly but Grandpa Jack says all witches like flying (ha ha). Grandpa Jack calls her a harridan and a harpy and he is going on holiday while she is in the country. He is afraid of her.

Dad is hiding in the cellar with his teeth collection when the front door bells rings and rings and does not stop ringing until I open the door. I stop a gasp. An old woman is there. She is like a human stick insect, all thin and long and sticky but with strange hairy clothes on, the colour of sick. She has grey hair barging out of her head like it is having a noisy dance party. She looks down at me through really thick glasses.
'To be sure, you are taller on the telephone, Dr Marshall,' she says and her thin lips snap together like a purse. 'I would not be putting my teeth in your hands, I think.'
'That's my Dad,' I explain. 'He is bigger than me and actually older and he has a beard as well.'
She stalks past me and hands me her hairy jacket. It is so furry, I am worried it is going to bite me. I throw it in the cupboard under the stairs - just in case.
'I will be taking five sugars in my tea and not one granule more. Where is your dear mother George?'
'Mum's name is Daphne,' I tell her, 'not George.'
She laughs like I have made a big joke.
'I must say I expected you to be a little more...' she pauses and adjusts her glasses. '...more like a baby.'
'George is the baby,' I say, 'I am Wilf and I am 9.'
'Your mother did not inform me of another child in the house!' she screeches. 'Anyway, you are too small to be nine years of age. My Derek was a good five foot ten at your age and strong as great big giant.'
'I am not small,' I say, 'I am the 4th tallest in my class and I am very strong.'
'Oh, Aunt Hatty!' says Mum. 'How are you?' George is squirming in her arms going red. I KNOW what he is doing.
'This must be George at last,' says Aunt Harpy. 'I will take him now and look him over.' She grabs him and George smiles. 'See, he loves me, all babies and small children love me - it's a gift I have. I am like a goddess to my grandson.'
'How is Peter?' asks Mum.
'Six foot four and still growing,' says Great Aunt Harpy, looking at me. 'Unlike some people.'
At that moment, George lets out a massive stinky poo. It goes on and on and he goes purple in he face. I am sure he winks at me.
'I think I'll take that tea now,' says Aunt Harpy, sniffing madly. 'You may have the baby back.'
'I will take him,' I say. 'George and me have things to talk about.'
Baby poo has an up side.

The Shouting Handbag

It is a true fact that, The Parents are meandering their weary way into the 21st century. I have actual proof of this. I will explain. Because of my baby brother George, I am now used to being shouted at. I was shouted at over the fantastic numbers of stick insects being born in George's bedroom. I was shouted at because I blunted the bread knife when I used it for whittling and I was shouted at completely by accident when Dad tripped over me doing jumping training on the stairs. Times are tense in this house. So, you can see I am quite used to being shouted at when The Handbag happened.

I am in the kitchen making some interesting biscuits. I have an Apollo 11 biscuit cutter, some left over vegetables for healthiness, some stuff from the fridge and half a bag of flour. I whizz them all up in the new machine bought for squishing up George's food into something that looks like sick (he likes it). It is when I am giving some of the interesting mixture to Serena the cat for testing that I hear the shouting. It is tiny shouting, like a pixie trapped in a hole or what a stick insect might sound like if it got angry. I look around. Mum's hemp and bamboo handbag is wedged inside the bread bin. At least it is not in the fridge like last week. Anyway, I can hear a voice shouting from the inside of the handbag. I listen.
"Hello! Hello!" the voice is saying. For a mad moment I wonder if Mum has shrunk to an incredibly small size and got stuck inside her own handbag. Or more likely she has captured someone very, very little and maybe even now is demanding a ransom for them. Grim. I decide to help.
'Who are you?' I shout at the handbag. 'Tell me what you want.'
'Answer me!' squeaks the tiny person inside the handbag.
'I'm going to free you,' I say, 'just keep quiet!'
I take the handbag and keeping an eye out for snapping traps, I rootle around its mysterious innards. And there it is.
A MOBILE PHONE.
I pick it up. Mum has got a mobile phone. I never thought of that. I am open-mouthed as I listen to it weebling at me in a familiar sort of way. I put it to my ear.
'Is that you, Grandpa Jack?' I ask.
'Who else would it be!' yells Grandpa Jack. 'Tell your mother to keep her phone under control will you now? She keeps phoning me every two seconds and then giving me the silent treatment!'
'I think she just forgot to lock the phone, Grandpa,' I explain.
'Lock the phone! Lock the phone! Give me the strength of ten men! Does she not trust you, my lad? That is typical...'
And he is off on a rant about the evils of locking telephones and all related topics. I hold the phone away from my ear and boggle at its meaning.

Here is Mum's pre-George idea of a mobile phone

Here is Mum's actual mobile phone.