Hallowe'en is not a big deal to me, except that it's the anniversary of Martin's transplant. Five years ago yesterday, he went into hospital exhausted and grey, and woke up the next morning pink and full of beans. A miracle.
But this year I tried getting more into it, what with having a wee chap who always likes a chance to dress up and approach strangers for sugar. We found a Spiderman outfit - pants, shirt and gimp hat - and he's not been out of it since. Even the hat.
I've been wanting to see The Proxies for ages. Since Sweeney was about six months old, in fact. Yesterday they put on a matinee performance at the Adelaide and we met up with Bela and Liisa to rock out until their tiny little ears bled. Sweeney pranced into the pub - sticky floors, ancient drunks holding up the bar, leather jackets everywhere - in his Spiderman outfit, and we headed into an anteroom to play pool and enjoy some lesser volume. Once Sweeney found Bela - dressed as a cat - the two of them fell off barstools, sprayed chips around, banged their fists on their seats and ripped through the place like teeny dervishes.
There's something quite nice about singing along to Pixies anthems with fifty other people, while two of the best kids in the world nut off in the nicest possible way.
Then back to the M-Ns for party fun with some other families. Children were despatched, and festivities continued until this reporter's diet of sudafed tablets, coffee, delicious beer and vodka-laced punch caught up, and I really needed to get horizontal. Walked home under the light of an almost full moon.
Day 3 million of toilet training. Sweeney's getting quite good at holding on until he gets into the bath, or until I've walked away after asking for the twenty thousandth time whether he wants to go to the toilet. Which reminds me, I really need to hose down the deck in the morning. No, it's not getting to me at all. Not. At. All.