WHEN I arranged to bring the two youngest boys over to spend the half term break with their granny in Northern Ireland, I overlooked one very important factor.

Heartlessly, I was taking them away on Hallowe’en. For the 16-year-old, this meant he would be missing out on blood and gore themed parties with his schoolmates.

For the recently turned 13-year-old, this would be his last chance to roam around the streets with his friends, terrifying neighbours by demanding sweets and cash with menace, because I have already told him he will be far too old to take part next year.

This parental act of cruelty only dawned on him a few days before we went: “Hallowe’en? Hallowe’en? I can’t believe you’re taking us away on Halloween,” he admonished me.

Telling them that I suffered blistered fingers carving rock hard turnips into lanterns and ducking for two pence pieces stuck into cooking apples when I was a child only made it worse.

“But that was back in the Dark Ages. It’s one of the biggest days of the year now,” they moaned. “How could you do this to us?”

I told my sister, who lives with their granny and was going away for a few days while we came to stay. She sympathised with the boys, because Halloween is a particularly big event now in our part of Northern Ireland, second only to Christmas in the average child’s calendar here.

“It’s fantastic, there’s a real festival atmosphere, with kids dressing up all week and there’s lots going on in town,” she said.

Like the good auntie she is, she pulled out all the stops to ensure the boys wouldn’t be disappointed. So she had costumes, pumpkins and lots of sweet treats at the ready when we arrived.

Just before she went off, she presented them with Hallowe'en costumes, a scary mask for Roscoe and a long, luminous green wig for Albert, complete with fluorescent green, glow-in-the-dark face paint with fake blood.

She also covered his neck, face and arms in realistic looking tattoo transfers, so that he looked just like the sort of menacing character you’d cross the street to avoid.

And then, just before she left, she presented them with her fait accompli: “I’ve got you tickets for a scary movie event at the theatre, followed by Hallowe’en ghost stories at a café in town,” she said. “They told me everyone will be dressing up,” she said.

I had to stay with granny, but gave the boys some money for sweets: “This will probably be far better than Hallowe'en at home,” I told them.

They returned a few hours later, glaring at me darkly: “Oh, you really do look scary boys,” I said, mock terrified, getting into the spirit of things. “How was the film?”

“It was a PG. We were the oldest people there,” said Albert. “It was full of five year olds.”

“Oh dear. How was the ghost story then?” I asked. “The oldest there was about seven years old,” said Roscoe.

It was, of course, all my fault.

GRANNY needs a wheelchair to get about now and, since the weather was so nice when we were with her, we took her out for a few walks.

But the chair took a bit of getting used to and, on our first venture into town, I took control. Negotiating road crossings was easy in most places where there were dropped kerbs.

But, at one crossing, on a corner, the ramp at the other side of the road had been badly finished, the edge too steep to get the wheelchair over it easily.

So, after several failed attempts, I decided to turn the chair backwards and try it that way.

Roscoe, listening to music through his earphones, huffed and puffed exasperatedly as he watched me faff about.

“Honestly, you are so embarrassing, Mum,” he moaned, moving a few steps away to make it look like he wasn’t with me.

In the middle of all this, a car came round the corner and had to stop because I was still out on the road. Roscoe looked like he was wishing a hole would open up in the road and swallow me whole: “Look, Mum. That driver’s shaking his head at you. How embarrassing.” 

I started to get a bit flustered now, especially after I got onto the pavement and the car pulled up beside me.

The driver lowered his window and I steeled myself for his complaint, aware that I could easily have caused an accident.

But, instead, he pointed his finger at Roscoe and, shouted at him in a broad Northern Irish accent: “Could you not have given the girl a hand? Look at you, standing there doing nothing.”

Then, still shaking his head, he drove off, leaving my 16-year-old suitably chastened. He couldn’t have been more helpful with the wheelchair for the rest of the week.