The bargain basement late night delivery slot from the supermarket is great. While everyone else in the country is out spending pay day night in the pub or at a really good Halloween party, I am answering the door in my pyjamas with a towel on my head. I let the delivery man into the living room and he curses as he trips over the booster seat, then asks me just why I ordered twenty bottles of fizzy water (it’s just better than still, OK?) and if I plan to bathe in it (eurgh.)

At least I didn’t have to carry it all home from the supermarket. That and the pumpkins, all three of them. So, when my little boy comes downstairs in the morning, it will be like Father Christmas has been in the night, even though it was nothing like that.

We’ve got a whole week off to spend together. No juggling, no guilt: just us two and pumpkins, leaves and Frankenstein stuff. It’s nearly as good as Christmas, maybe even better.

“I’ll leave you to drink your lemonade then,” said that delivery man as he left.