The Ghost Wants Pockets. I Just Want My Dining Table Back.

I made the mistake of asking my children what they wanted to dress up as for Halloween.

A perfectly innocent question, I thought.

I was expecting something straightforward. A witch, perhaps. A vampire. One of those skeleton costumes that glows in the dark and somehow costs £18 despite containing approximately four pence worth of fabric.

No.

My daughter wants to be a ghost.

With pockets.

Now, I have absolutely nothing against ghosts having pockets. I’m sure the afterlife involves carrying things occasionally. Keys, perhaps. A mobile phone. Whatever paperwork is required when you arrive.

But apparently these pockets are essential because she needs somewhere to keep her Halloween sweets.

I pointed out that ghosts traditionally float about being mysterious and occasionally rattling chains.

She informed me that ghosts can have pockets if they want to.

Fair enough.

I’m not about to start policing the clothing choices of imaginary dead people.

My son, meanwhile, has decided he wants to be a vampire.

Not an ordinary vampire.

A vampire who works in a supermarket.

I asked why.

“Because vampires need jobs too, Mum.”

Well, obviously.

I hadn’t considered the financial pressures facing the undead.

Apparently his vampire works nights, which makes perfect sense, and receives a staff discount.

I asked whether the discount applied to garlic.

He looked at me as though I’d said something deeply offensive.

“Vampires don’t like garlic!”

Yes, darling. That was rather the point.

Anyway, the dining table has now become a costume workshop.

There are bits of black fabric everywhere, cardboard shapes, elastic, glue, and a suspicious quantity of glitter that I’m fairly certain will still be appearing in unexpected places when we’re putting up Christmas decorations.

And I have discovered something rather amusing about being a naturist mother.

Most days, nobody in our house gives much thought to clothes.

We wear them when they’re useful, necessary or simply because we fancy wearing something. At home, being naked is perfectly ordinary.

Nobody makes an announcement about it.

Nobody particularly cares.

Yet here we are, spending an entire evening having the most passionate discussions imaginable about what everybody should wear.

Apparently Halloween is the one occasion when my family becomes deeply invested in fashion.

My daughter has strong opinions about fabric.

My son has strong opinions about capes.

And I have strong opinions about somebody using my good kitchen scissors to cut cardboard.

Which brings me to the ghost.

The original plan involved an old white sheet.

Simple.

Traditional.

Economical.

Unfortunately, my daughter rejected it immediately because it didn’t have pockets.

I suggested sewing some on.

She considered this.

“Can they have zips?”

Zips?

On a ghost?

“Why would a ghost need zips?”

“So nobody steals my sweets.”

Of course.

Because apparently the supernatural community has a serious pickpocketing problem.

I began wondering whether there was a professional ghost costume designer somewhere who could take over.

Then she asked whether we could make the pockets waterproof.

I put the kettle on.

There are moments in motherhood when a cup of tea isn’t really a drink. It’s a strategic withdrawal.

Meanwhile, my son was attempting to create his supermarket vampire uniform.

He wanted a name badge.

I suggested Count Dracula.

He said that was boring.

He wanted to be called Kevin.

Kevin the Vampire.

Who works nights at a supermarket.

Honestly, I would watch that television programme.

He then asked whether vampires get holidays.

I said I imagined they probably did.

“Where would they go?”

“Somewhere without much sunshine?”

He thought about this.

“Wales, then.”

Cheeky little sod.

Although looking out of the window at the October rain, I couldn’t entirely disagree.

By this point, I’d been sitting naked at the dining table for nearly an hour, surrounded by fabric and trying to work out how to attach a pocket to something that didn’t have a waist.

And do you know what I suddenly found funny?

Nobody had questioned what I was wearing.

Or rather, wasn’t wearing.

Nobody had made any fuss about Mum sitting there perfectly comfortable in her own skin.

But the precise positioning of a ghost’s pocket had become a matter of enormous importance.

I rather love that.

Because sometimes people imagine naturism as being somehow opposed to clothes.

As though we’re wandering around angrily rejecting cardigans.

We’re not.

Clothes can be useful, beautiful, practical, ridiculous and wonderfully expressive.

They can keep us warm, protect us from the weather or allow us to pretend we’re Kevin, a financially responsible vampire with excellent employment benefits.

The difference is that, in our home, clothing isn’t what makes somebody respectable, acceptable or worthy of consideration.

It’s simply something we choose according to the circumstances.

And Halloween is a brilliant reminder that what we wear can also be completely daft.

My children weren’t thinking about fashion rules, body expectations or whether somebody might judge their appearance.

They were thinking about imagination.

And sweets.

Mostly sweets, actually.

Eventually, we reached an agreement.

The ghost would have two pockets.

One for sweets.

One for emergency sweets.

The vampire would have a name badge, a cape and a cardboard checkout scanner.

And I would apparently be dressing up as a mummy.

I looked at them.

“But I already am a mummy.”

Silence.

My son stared at me.

My daughter sighed.

“Mum. That’s not funny.”

Excuse me?

I’ve spent the evening helping to create a ghost with secure confectionery storage and a vampire employed in retail, and apparently I’m the one making ridiculous jokes?

Fine.

I’ll accept the criticism.

Although I did briefly consider wrapping myself in toilet roll just to prove a point.

Then I remembered how much toilet roll costs.

Absolutely not.

Eventually, the children disappeared to try on their costumes, leaving me surrounded by scraps of fabric, empty glue sticks and enough glitter to decorate a small Welsh village.

I sat looking at the mess.

The table would need cleaning.

The floor would need sweeping.

And somebody had managed to get a blob of glue on my favourite mug.

But we’d spent a lovely evening together.

Not because we’d organised anything particularly special.

Not because we’d spent a fortune.

And certainly not because the costumes were going to win any awards.

We’d simply sat around the table, talked complete nonsense and laughed at ideas that became increasingly ridiculous the longer we discussed them.

Sometimes family life is at its best when nobody is trying terribly hard to make it perfect.

Although I reserve the right to reconsider that statement when I discover glitter in my breakfast.

Just as I was clearing up, my daughter appeared in the doorway.

“Mum?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you think ghosts wear pants?”

I looked at her.

Then at the fabric.

Then at my own completely naked body.

“Darling, I really don’t think ghosts are terribly concerned about underwear.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“Good. Because I haven’t made any.”

And off she went.

Wonderful.

I’ve raised a ghost with excellent financial planning skills and absolutely no interest in underwear.

So tell me, what’s the most wonderfully ridiculous Halloween costume your children have ever requested, and did you actually manage to make it?