Treat. Seriously. Treat.

He organised his own Hallowe’en party – invited a few friends over this afternoon, and by the time they’d gone mumming, there were 20 kids and six parents in their group. They came home together, and I plied the parents with coffee and tea and then tried to breathe deeply as the children, ranging in age from about five to twelve got steadily more and more hepped up on Hallowe’en goofballs.

We didn’t get too many kids this year, which is weird. Usually we get 150 kids, even when the weather is shite. But I guess when Hallowe’en falls on a weekend, everyone drives their kids into the city where the rich people have all the good candy.

Nevertheless, at about 8:30, the doorbell rang. It was the obligatory trump of teenagers, doodling around in halfhearted costumes. I don’t mind. I have enough candy to give Willy Wonka diabetes, so as long as the teenagers *try*, I reward them. I force them to say “trick or treat”, though. Because I’m mean.

So the young man, probably 6′ tall and still growing into his feet, says “Happy Birthday”, and holds out his satchel. I dump some treats in there and tell him “it’s not my birthday, but I hope you have a good night.”

He says “am I at least close?”

I drop treats in the bags each of the three young women are carrying. “Nope.”

“So when’s your birthday?” He asks.

“June,” I say.

“ME TOO!” says one of the girls.

“What day in June?” another girl asks.

“The best day,” I say.

They begin to guess. They didn’t make it to the Best Day of the Year, but after a dozen attempts, the young man peers his head around the door frame and says “69, hurr hurr hurr.”

“Really!?” I say. “REALLY? *THAT* is what you come up with? You’ve had, what, five minutes to come up with something witty, and that’s your best?”

The girls ask what he said.

“He was all, sixty-nine, hurr hurr hurr,” I reply, in my best #TheTeen voice. The girls titter. The boy is turning red.

“Like, did you expect me to be EMBARRASSED at 69? Did you think I was going to clutch my pearls and squeal, **heavens to murgatroyd, what the young people are saying these days**? Like, did you expect that I don’t know what that MEANS? I have TWO KIDS, buddy. I was doing that before you were ever born, and baby, I’m GOOD at it.”

The boy is now beet red and laughing so hard he can hardly stand. The girls are squealing.

The boy leans against a post and wheezes. “4:20,” he says.

“You have GOT to be kidding me,” I say. “I was eighteen not very long ago, buster. I have probably 4:20ed more times than you’ve had hand-relations. LOOK AT ME, for God’s sake. These are real dreadlocks.”

Boy is now leaning against the post, his face close to the colour of his hunter-orange jumpsuit (which serves as his costume). “You’re awesome,” he says.

“Of COURSE I’m awesome. And if you think you’re going to one-up me or embarrass me at my OWN HOUSE? You’d better remember that I’m awesome, boyo. Have an awesome night.”

This was, I think, one of the best things that’s ever happened in the history of time.