Trick or treat?" said the young man in a plastic Frankenstein mask on our doorstep.

"Ooh blimey," said my husband. "I forgot it was Hallowe'en. I don't think I've got anything to give you. How about some chopped liver?"

"What's that?" said young Frankenstein.

"You know, liver that has been chopped. Or how about a nice sheep's head?" continued my husband.

"Uh?" said the undead.

"It's the head of a sheep ... oh, never mind. Sorry, can't help you. Bye."

My husband closed the door and came into the kitchen, where our three-year-old, Eve, and I were preparing supper.

"That was embarrassing," he said. "I hope he doesn't play any horrible tricks on us. One of us had better go up the shop and get some sweets in case we get any more callers."

So while my husband boiled water for the spaghetti, I trotted off up the road and came back with 97p worth of liquorice chews, green fizz things and squishy pink sugary mushrooms - a suitably nasty diet, I thought, for little monsters of the night.

Ten minutes later, just as we were about to eat, the doorbell rang again.

"Trick or treat?" said another boy in another ghoulish plastic mask.

"Take this," I said, lobbing two mushrooms and a Black Jack into his plastic bag. "Now off you go, quickly. And no funny business."

Five minutes later the doorbell rang again. This time it was a neighbour with his two children - one dressed as a skeleton, the other in a shiny wizard outfit.

"Here you go," I said passing them the remains of the sweets.

"But I haven't said trick or treat," said the skeleton, a bit miffed.

"Have you got a trick?"

"Err ... "

"Well take the treat then," I said, and hurried back to my dinner.

My husband then pointed out that, should we have any more trick-or-treaters, we'd have nothing to give them.

"I'm sure that's the lot for the night," I said. "Otherwise, we've got some fruit."

"Yeah, right," he said. "That would go down like a bucket of bat's blood."

"Besides," I said. "I object to encouraging kids to do this sort of thing. I don't mind little ones going round with their parents so much. But I don't like it when you get teenagers knocking on doors and intimidating the neighbourhood. It's far too sinister."

My husband agreed - and so did Eve.

But then, her idea of celebrating Hallowe'en was putting on her fairy costume and dancing around to the Tweenies (let's hope it lasts).

Anyway, that wasn't the last call we had that night. At 9pm the doorbell rang again and, with a certain amount of dread and a couple of apples in my hand, I answered it.

A young man stood in the gloom holding a large basket of household cleaning fluids, dishcloths, ironing board covers, a handy first-aid kit and plastic pegs.

He started his downtrodden lament about being poor and needing a chance to improve his circumstances by door-to-door selling when, in a sudden attack of charitable sympathy, I interrupted him.

"Of course I'll buy something," I said. "Dusters will do. How much? Three pounds fifty for two? A bargain. Here you go. Have some apples, too. Good luck."

He was so shocked he went as white as a ghost.