The Fat Bloke Diaries

Episode Fifty-Six – Spellbound

Donald Pleasence went to the same school as me. Not at the same time of course, I’m just few years younger than the much-loved actor was. And it was a comprehensive when I went, not a quality grammar school like in his day. But he did come to a school assembly once and spoke about his schooldays in that menacing deadpan voice of his. He scared the hell out of us adolescents, as we knew him from one of the all-time classic horror movies, ‘Halloween’.

If one thing’s certain this week, it’s that Mr Pleasence’s second-best-known role (after stroking that white cat in that Bond flick) will have had an airing on a satellite movie channel. And if two things are certain, the other is that that Derek Angora (the man with the warmest jumper in witchery) will be able to double his personal appearance fees around now. Halloween must be so lucrative for him; he’ll be coining it in. So why does he always look so serious? Maybe he’s scared that if he smiled he’d get punched? After all, everyone likes to strike a happy medium.

It’s the time of year that we ponder the nature of spooks, ghosts and things that go bump in the night. At my house this latter is usually the bass from my neighbour’s stereo. People that are susceptible to this kind of thing often mention the feeling of being watched. I get that too, though not from my neighbour. If I’m being watched it usually means that I’ve left my webcam on.

Another thing (so that’s three) that happens without fail at the onset of autumn is that we all turn to comfort foods after a summer of salads and abstinence. Now that the leaves are falling and the clocks have gone back the evenings are crying out as loudly as my stomach for stews, pies and dumplings. The consumption of traditional British stodge is almost a patriotic duty when the nights start drawing in. And Halloween of course gives us an excellent excuse to pile on the pounds, should we so desire.

Trick or Treat, that American import that seems to have lost its sense of fun in translation, now has a firm hold over children here, even if in some places it degenerates into robbery with menaces. In my house I’ve developed a technique for dealing with these disguised doorstep muggers. I simply turn out all the lights and sit in the dark with my earphones on. I save up several weeks of The Archers for this evasive manoeuvres marathon. It has the double benefit of not exposing me to the treachery of ‘trick-or-treat-or-else’ teenagers and also means that I can keep all the bite-size chocolates that I got (just in case they come a-knocking before I can get to the light switch) for a feast later. Not that it’s good for my waistline.

And just when we think that we’ve got through the ghoulish temptations of last weekend, there’s Bonfire Night looming, with its cinder toffee, parkin and toffee apples. Much as my Beloved might try to persuade me otherwise, I can’t see these caramel-coated Granny Smiths counting towards my five a day.

It’s great to go out for long walks when the leaves have fallen and the bare twigs stretch like skeletal fingers out to snag a stray strand of hair. But while it’s oh so nice just to wander, it’s so much nicer, yes it’s oh so nice to wander back. I know the object of the exercise is exercise, but on nights like these, there’s nothing better to getting home to a steaming mug of hot chocolate. I want to resist, but it’s difficult. It’s like I’m under some spell. Curse you, Beloved, and your bewitchingly mouth-watering drinking-chocolate-making abilities!

But if Halloween and Bonfire night have both proved to be so very calorifically tempting, then there’s worse around the corner. It’s only seven weeks to Christmas.



© Shaun Finnie 2009

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