Andy Richardson: Halloween? How to deliver the ideal treat

They knocked again. It was a 'We-know-you're-in-there-and-we're-going-to-keep-knocking-until-you-open-the-door-and-give-us-some-attention' knock.

In many ways, it's the opposite of the noise made by the Amazon delivery man, who disinterestedly 'tries' to drop-off overdraft-funded goods. His modus operandi is to quietly brush the door, so as not to disturb anyone, before putting a 'you were out when we called' card through the letter box. His work done, he zooms up the road in his 80mph van as I race to the door only to find he's gone.

If only the Halloween kids could get a job with Amazon, then my Gandhi books and obscure Paul Weller CDs would actually reach me rather than languishing in a warehouse somewhere in Northampton. But I digress.

The Halloween kids hammered at the door like a Highways Agency contractor breaking up a road. I'd cunningly installed the really loud doorbell at a height just out of reach for Halloween-kids.

They found it. 'BBBRRRRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGGGG'. Damn those tall kids.

Upstairs, I switched off a light . . .

much too late. I was a mouse trapped in a corner by a razor-clawed cat.

Answering the door when you've pretended to be out brings double humiliation. You concede that a) you're a lazy, misanthropic git who's too lazy to walk up the hall to open it, and, b) you didn't want to speak to the person who's taken the time and trouble to call.

If first impressions are the ones that count, it's the worst possible start.

The Halloween kids were dressed shades of black and pumpkin-bark-orange. They were brandishing highly flammable skeletons-on-sticks. "Trick or treat?" they said. A man with a darker sense of humour might have thought of flashing a Zippo lighter in the direction of the skeletons and muttering 'trick – watch this. Whoosh'. But I am not that man and the Zippo stayed safely in my pocket.

Halloween is a custom I don't get. As adults, we're told not to give sweets to unaccompanied kids. And that's A Good Thing. Kids are told not to accept gifts from strangers, which is also A Good Thing. But on Halloween, the rule book goes out of the window and children are encouraged to solicit money from strangers, and bemused blokes on doorsteps are encouraged to offer kids a Walnut Whip. It's weird.

The thing that gets me most, however, is the dressing up. What's that all about? I received an email late last night from a very good friend telling me to take a wand, wear a hat or take a rabbit to a party. 'Is it at Hogwarts?' I thought.

The theme for the party was 'magic' and I'm sure people will have great fun waving wands while drinking strong cocktails, and, erm, fussing with rabbits. Actually, I quite like the idea of taking a rabbit: I could sit in the corner, quietly stroking it saying: "Don't worry, rabbit, I'll get you out of here alive . . ."

I've only ever attended two fancy dress parties. The first was as a kid when I decided to go as Dennis The Menace, from the Bash Street Kids. I had a black-and-red rugby shirt, black shorts, red socks and an impish grin. What could go wrong? Before the party, I raced into the garden to complete my 'look'. It was dark and I decided to skid across the lawn on my knees so that I have dirty legs, just like Dennis. I slid with the enthusiasm of a Premiership footballer scoring a 90th minute goal at the Theatre of Dreams.

I went back inside: "I'm ready now." My mum walked towards me and sniffed the air, like a beagle searching for drugs at a Mexican airport.

"What have you slid in?" she asked. I was covered in dog muck. I'd not seen it on the lawn. I attended the party looking like Dennis the Menis but smelling curiously of bleach and rotting meat.

My second and final attempt at fancy dress came at age 11. I went to a school disco dressed as Captain Sensible. I had a punkish, green fluffy jumper, drain pipe jeans and mirrored, John Lennon shades. They thought I'd gone as Orville and awarded me first prize. I've sworn off fancy dress.

Back at the door, the Halloween kids were pressing me for an answer. "Trick or treat, mister?"

I thought about giving them an internet link to netmums.com, warning them of the dangers of taking gifts from strangers. But then I had a better idea.

I ran into the kitchen and got the card from Amazon.

Treat. I said, handing them the Amazon delivery card: "Take this, there's a number on the back, call them and ask them for a job. You'll have a job for life." And with that, I shooed them out the door.