I smoked a few cigarettes today, out on the balcony of my Italian girlfriend's flat. Careful not to be spotted by Pest n.1 and n.2, whom we had enticed indoors by switching on the TV, we sipped hot chocolate and discussed our plans for Hallowe'en. Mine involve a pointy hat, a witch's outfit and a train to London (I shall park my broomstick at the station's carpark that night) and hers include the train and some alcohol, although she will be doing the pub crawl in plain clothes. Some witches like to get about in disguise.

I'll pass on the alcohol, I think. The last time I went to London (theatre), I took a cab back home from the station and I kept clutching my mobile phone with a finger on the '9'; not taking cabs regularly, I got rather uncomfortable when I realised that the driver had trained his rear-view mirror on the back seats: I had a pair of very dark, Eastern European eyes boring on me and I became convinced he would suddenly veer off some dark countryside roads, happily rape and strangle me and dump my lifeless body somewhere in the bushes. No matter how silly and unfounded the fears, they are not worth a couple of G&Ts.

I used to attend Hallowe'en celebrations every year, BH&C (Before Husband & Children). In the last few years, I have hosted children's parties and 'trick-or-treat' group itineraries; I have dressed up, carved pumpkins, cut out holes in sheets for little eyes to see through, baked black bread and cooked black spaghetti with blood sauce. We have come back home laden with chocolates and sweets, E-colours propelling my hyperventilating boys high, low and in every other possible direction.

I shall honour the tradition this year too: the kitchen will be crawling with spiders, live and plastic alike, cotton wool cobwebs and hanging skeletons. I shall be scaring the very young ones with my makeup and long, blue (real) fingernails. However, when the children have polished the last chocolate coffin and finished using my broomstick as a machine gun, it will be my turn to have some fun.

Mr Imaginary Friend says I shall be looking lovely under the huge pointy hat and fake bleeding scars. He says I don't scare him at all and that he will be proud to have me on his arm as I walk into that pub. Hell, I don't even need a wig to complement my costume, although I shall have to discourage him from twiddling my hair: I intend to tie black ribbons and tarantulas in it and he might get his fingers caught....

Besides, who said witches don't bite?