Slightly late, you may think (although it is still Halloween in Tahiti), but when I was growing up, October 31st just didn’t have the same cultural significance that it does today.
The current generation of children will grow up viewing All Hallows Eve with the same rosy hue that the Americans do, looking back on a night of fun, games, costumes, trick or treating and, most importantly, vast numbers of normally-illicit sweets. They forget, of course, the painful repercusssions of eating your own bodyweight in refined sugar and instead look forward to next year, when they can again zing merrilly from door to door, engaged in a legalised version of demanding money with menaces.
I have a vague memory of one Halloween party when I was little, and a much stronger recollection of the one that I didn’t go to. I was seven and I was in hospital. This time, it was a planned visit. I had a mole growing behind my ear that was clearly growing at such a great rate of knots that it needed to be removed.
Upon arrival on my ward I was delighted to discover that, although I was going to be spending Halloween night in hospital, there was going to be a party for all the inmates that evening.
My operation was scheduled for the same day. I remember being in a room and having an injection in my arm and then moments later asking when the operation was starting, only to be told that it had been done. After that, the next thing I remember is waking up in the morning and being distraught to find that I had slept right through the party.
I am not sure how much anaesthetic you have been given if you sleep for about 16 hours. I know that the operation took longer than expected because they had to cut a lump out of my neck as well, but I suspect that the answer is still, in all probability, too much. Fortunately there were no long term effects (the mole and lump were both benign) unless you count my habit of falling asleep at a moments notice?