Obsessed with the forbidden
“Dad, can I have a trickortreat today?” These are, more or less unfailingly, the first words out of my four-year-old son’s mouth at half six in the morning. A “trickortreat,” in his happy rhyming slang, is a sweet, so named because of the indelible impression that Halloween made on him. On that night, my children went through the backstreets of East Finchley like a swarm of confectionerycrazed locusts. We have buckets of sweets; literally, buckets. Two of them: one purple, one orange.