The man at the bar in the dress slides down the bar and schmoozes. Face made up and a cape. Leering and red-eyed. “What have you come as?”
“For you, mainly disappointment and minor embarrassment, possibly with a hint of a reminder of your own misguided inflated self-worth”
He’s serving us pints later.
And Lara Croft is sat behind me, middle-aged and overweight. And the slutty witch in the mask keeps staring at me. Directly. Not hint of deception. It’s brisk.
Behind the girls stand the vampire and the ghost, hovering. Grinning. They’ve never been this close. I sit and they scurry.
And Scooby Doo and a wind-up doll are entertaining as we watch. The three witches to our left, obese and rotten, applaud and wish. The dance floor is open space. But in comes the short skirt swaying and the fat friend shuffling and they taunt into some kind of separation. We’re watching two shows. There’s, and Scooby’s.
“Confident or drunk?”
Jade considers.
“She can move. And she’s not ugly. The former.”
Two lads try their luck, but the luck’s out. It’s a solo dance. And the band whip it up and the girl sways sideways and tempts more in. Soon they’re all up there swaying.
And the old man from the start. The one who shouted “ABRAHAM ABRAHAM” to the Dracula question, his mullet rippling, he’s up there too. Smiling.
We weave through ghouls and goblins and witches and wizards and bats and devils and we wink goodbye to Wonder Woman, still trying his look, red eyes redder.
To think, we didn’t dress up. On Halloween.
It leaves you without the excuse.
