And so we come upon that time of year again when gangs of vicious thugs roam the streets in disguise demanding sweets with menaces from the elderly and defenceless, or inscribe their doors with offensive graffiti - or do even worse - for those who don't cough up.
I can recall a time when even I - yes, I, the Derrig of the Derrigs - was cowed by these terror tots.
It ruined what promised to be a perfectly good evening at a party to celebrate the divorce of an eminently unsuitable couple. I had sent Mr Benjamin Thomas ahead to the Tollgate Public House to await my attendance, promising to bring with me the directions to the party venue. Having preened and primped myself into party readiness, I was about to depart my humble adobe when I was beset by a ruthless gang of marauding minature ruffians, all dressed in what can only be described as "wicked gear".
I retreated and waited for the coast to clear, but they stood their ground, brushing against my garden gate, leaning near my hedge, and shuffling their tiny feet in the most chilling manner.
In the end I could stand the tension and fear no longer and sacrificed my last remaining Ginster's breakfast bar, feeding it gingerly through the letterbox. I withdrew to my bedroom and bolstered myself with the duvet and pillows for an hour or so until it was safe to go back downstairs.
I looked carefully through the letterbox and...they had completely vanished!
It is an experience I do not wish to repeat, although Mr.Thomas did well out of it - as is usually the case - having waited faithfully and fruitlessly for me in the Tollgate and ending up as absolutely cheerful as only a man of his intemperance can.
This year I will be staying overnight at Club Derrig until the hideous youthful-high-jinks-cum-criminality has exhausted itself.
It's a total disgrace and something must be done about it.
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