When I answered the door on All Saints' eve, I tried to look welcoming.
Locals know my enthusiasm for trick or treaters is non-existent, but I half-expected to see one of my own 20-somethings on my doorstep, his more than six-foot frame squeezed into a child's Spiderman costume.
Only last week the offspring had another pick at the collective Halloween wound.
The scab is years old now, but it only takes a little scratching for fresh blood to gush forth.
The particular son in question is famous in the family for committing his concerns to paper at about the age of 7 in a catchily titled poem *****'s not allowed to do anything!
(I have withheld his name to avoid him being ridiculed and because it would be unfair to single him out when I know his three brothers shared his views).
Not one to beat about the bush, his poem went: No Trick or Treat, No Halloween, No Bonfire, Bed early.
It is a wonder such a public statement did not herald a Halloween visit from a posse of child welfare authorities or an Anne Tolley predecessor agonising about the over-use of capitals.
The lads have never forgiven me for not allowing them to go trick or treating, still claiming I once promised I would allow it and then reneged.
Further, they have accused me of hypocrisy because on at least one Halloween I gave food to visiting little darlings in the neighbourhood.
I have to accept the latter accusation, but vehemently deny the back-down one.
When it came up again last week, I suggested to the poet that there was nothing stopping him having a go at trick or treating now he was free of the strictures of home.
He was scathing about that idea, suggesting that homeowners would be more likely to rush off and call the police than ladle out the lollies when confronted with the vision of him in any sort of Halloween attire .
Hopefully, he is letting out all that hurt in another equally pithy poem which may feature at the next family gathering.
He might have been comforted if he had been able to see the gruesome twosome greeting me at the door.
"Chrick or Chreat?" asked the lumpy looking one who kept turning his head about smiling at nothing.
"Do I know you?" I asked, not wanting to hurt him by suggesting he might be a little old for this caper.
"I'm Shuperman ," he said proudly pointing to his chest which was emblazoned with a large WB.
"Good oh. How about a trick then?"
"I am here to save the world from the nasty unions and those really nasty Aushtralian ones," he said, jumping off the deck and twisting his ankle.
"Really? Haven't you heard that Prime Minister John Key wants to bridge the income gap between Australia and New Zealand by 2025? Shouldn't we be learning from the way those Australians do things? What are you smiling at?"
Shuperman started to cry.
The other larger-than-life child visitor spoke up.
"Stop picking on him. He's kind. He gives me stuff."
"Who are you and why are you in a Santa costume? Don't you know there are still quite a few sleeps till Christmas?"
"I'm Pete. I'm Santa because he is fat and jolly and everybody loves him. Nobody thinks he's a greedy guts."
"OK Santa. If you say so. How about a trick from you then?"
"I don't want to do a trick. I just want treats."
Santa also began to wail.
"Santa," I said quietly but firmly, "you are beginning to sound a little like a spoilt brat. I am not sure I want to give treats to someone who's not going to play the game."
Shuperman wiped his eyes and smiled.
"Don'chu know that we don't have to play by any of your rulesh? We have our own rulesh. We made them up on the way up the shtreet. If you don't give us anything we will tell our mumsh that you threatened us with a big shtick and we had to run for our lives."
"Yes," said Santa, "no-one will believe your side of the story."
"Haven't you already got enough loot?" I asked, noting that Santa's sack was already overflowing.
Shuperman and Santa's crying performance reached alert the-noise-control-authorities level.
Bruised, but not quite beaten, I went inside and brought them each 5kg of overripe bananas.
The wailing subsided to baffled sniffing.
"What are we shupposed to do with these? They're too heavy," moaned Shuperman.
"You are clever chaps. It is your quest to find out what it means. Don't slip up," I said cheerfully, closing the door and waving them goodbye.
Collapsing into a chair, I was suddenly grateful for Spiderman and his brothers.
Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
