CARVED your pumpkin yet? Stocked up on glow-in-the-dark fangs and fake eyeballs? I should hope so: Halloween is almost upon us and the witching hour has become an entire witching weekend thanks to the fall of the dates this year.

With most children back at school on Monday, tonight is the popular choice for Halloween parties. We're off to one (well, the daughter is; husband and I are dropping her off and escaping for a curry, hurrah) and have typically left it late to get organised.

Personally, I'm not too keen on Asda after all the unsavoury stuff I've read about its owners, Walmart, but my daughter insists it's the place to go for Halloween costumes. Since a friend's just tipped me off about a 50s-style dress in the George clothing range that would really suit me, I am scooting off there this morning, squaring my conscience with the fact that I only go once a year for skeleton outfits.

Halloween represents a multi-million-pound bonanza to supermarkets, a glimmer of ghostly light in the slow period after the seasonal aisles have emptied of barbecue sets and before the full-on rush into wall-to-wall Christmas puddings. Never mind that this was originally a pagan festival; the taint of necromancy (communing with the dead) has been overpowered by a commercialised confectionary fest.

Now, I don't for one minute believe that trick-or-treating is turning kids to the dark side. Nor do I believe that having a pumpkin lantern in your window is tantamount to devil worship. Although it can attract the odd fanatic: someone knocked on our door once and told us we would go to hell. My husband told him the same thing.

However, I do loathe the whole 'swag' concept, which demands that we've got to stock up on sweets to satisfy outstretched hands and prevent the dull chants of 'trick or treat' from turning into unpleasant pranks. At best, it smacks of greed; at worst it's begging with menaces, particularly if it's unaccompanied older kids wearing hatchets and hoodies.

What gets me the most, though, is that out of the procession of little ghouls that knock on our door, fewer than half even bother to thank you for their so-called 'loot'. I have been known to snatch the basket back and snarl 'Say "thank you"' at them, which usually prompts an expression of complete

surprise. I would start a campaign to commercialise manners if Lynne Truss hadn't got there before me.

A mate of mine, who is known as the Halloween Man, invites friends in to see his pixies (he has 15, don't ask me where from) and gives them pumpkin pie.

But not everyone likes having their doorbell rung after dark, especially the elderly. I've co-operated in the past, and I daresay I will this time, if only to appease the daughter who is hacked off that I won't let her go out and do it herself.

At the time of writing we are still negotiating trick-or-treating etiquette. I may relent and let her visit friends and neighbours, but only if they're happy about it. This is because daughter is already deprived by her food allergies, which prevent her from eating half of the sweets anyway, and she's still feeling hard-done-by after last year's veto.

I wouldn't let her go out because of the idiots throwing flour and eggs, something that the police have already warned they'll crack down on (no pun intended) this year. I know this is chiefly on Mischief Night - a concept that, as a southerner, had entirely passed me by until I came to York - but, like fireworks after midnight, the practice seems to edge forward earlier every year.

Throwing eggs might seem harmless, but if my daughter got raw egg on her mouth, she'd go into anaphylactic shock. Untreated,

it's potentially fatal. I'm delighted that shops are being discouraged to sell eggs to groups of youths and

would like to alert the Sainsbury's at Jacksons about this, since last weekend all you had to do was spend a fiver and they gave you the eggs (and some bacon) for

free.

I suppose, if I let her go out in her werewolf mask (a pull-in latex head complete with snarling snout, glassy eyes and a thick mane), she'd be protected. It comes with hairy hands with nasty nails and if she wears my fake fur with it, the effect is pretty convincing. The fact that she can't breathe in it and falls over a lot because she can't see out complicates matters, but it should be OK for a sprint round to Sam's party, so long as we don't take the route with all the steps.

But if anyone gets egg on my child - not to mention my Tesco mock-mink - they'll have me to deal with. And I can be a real witch. Luckily we're past the full moon, when I undergo a transformation into a snarling she-devil, especially when I'm hormonal.

And that - according to my husband - is without any provocation at all.

Updated: 16:25 Friday, October 28, 2005