Last week I mentioned the possibility of making pumpkin and courgette-inspired treats for Halloween.
Oh, how I wish I had. As I type this I’m squatting in the dark under my kitchen table, hoping that the hordes of children who are besieging the house will disappear into the darkness.
I hear them scrunching up the gravel path, knocking on the door, ringing the bell. Is this how the pioneers felt when circled by the Indians?
I bought sweets, cheap, shiny enticing ones. But they called to me from the depths of my cupboard with such seductive whispers.
In the moments before darkness descended, I ate the lot.
I’m not proud of it, treating myself like that, or the fact that I’m now going to have to somehow trick the scales.