The View from Parson Street Nose
By PARSONSTNOSE | Thursday, November 01, 2012, 09:30
"Trick or treat!" I'd opened the door to be confronted by two plastic horror masks.
"But its Monday," I countered.
"We're busy on Wednesday," replied Dracula, jiggling his goody-sack under my nose.
"Yeah," chipped in Frankenstein, "we've gotta a Halloween party ter go to. We'll take crisps if you aint bought any chocolate yet, but no fruit cos we don't like it."
I duly informed the enterprising little horrors that if they didn't do their spooking on the actual night they would miss out on my business.
Honestly, the cheek of them!
It was so busy in Poundland the other day I fought my way back out of the door resolving to return later when the hordes had abated. But my escape route was barred by two women with their buggies, each of them had an accompanying pack of children, all the little ones were dressed in scary costumes.
"Harry Potter's a loser!" shouted a little vampire, snatching Harry's wand out of his hand and poking him with it. Harry promptly began bawling his eyes out.
"Aaron!" shouted the vampire's mother. "That's it! Give me them fangs, go on, hand 'em over." She thrust Harry's wand back at him, wrestled the fangs out of her son's mouth and stuffed them in her coat pocket. "You can 'ave 'em back when you learns to be nice to people and no sooner."
After breaking through the frightful throng, emerging into a fresh breeze, I soon realised I was also heading into the zone of the most dreadful ear-rending scream. On and on it went until eventually petering out into a forced and throaty squeak. Moments later another scream followed it, this, however, was of a quite different pitch and louder too. I isolated the ghastly racket to a bench upon which stood two little boys supervised by a scrawny codger in a denim jacket.
"Go on, our Benj," urged the codger. "Ivan's was much louder than yours."
Seeing Benj sucking in another mighty lungful of oxygen I cringed. The screech that came out of his lips was so deafening I feared pigeons would start plummeting from the skies.
It was like shopping in Bedlam as the screams continued, but oddly looking at the faces of my fellow shoppers I seemed to be the only one bothered by the noise. I reasoned that perhaps they were all wearing industrial ear-plugs.
The beginnings of a headache was starting to jangle by the time I'd reached the East Street Fruit Market and I groaned aloud when a small girl outside let out a sudden scream sending a series of painful pangs throbbing through my temples.
"Stop it, Jardine!" ordered her mother giving the little girl a shake. "One more scream out of you and one of these apples for the bobbing will be going in there!"
Jardine's mouth shut like a trap and for a moment the only sound was the rhythmic muttering of the Turner's man jabbering away about the price of his fruit.