In Europe, Halloween takes place on the eve of the year's darkness, the time of steel - grey skies and contracting days when winter is beginning to wrap its bony fingers around the world. The spirits are released into these last possible moments of light and warmth, through the thinning barriers that exist on the seasonal littoral between autumn and winter. On November 1, in Poland, the graveyards are crowded with people lighting candles on the graves of their ancestors and taking advantage of this easy access to the other world. In Mexico, Spain, Portugal, Lithuania, Germany, France, this is a time to celebrate the deceased, a black festival that refuses to take death seriously and laughs at the coming cold.

In Australia, the time has just leapt forward an hour and the evenings are long and balmy. Trick-or-treaters here begin their evening in broad daylight , and cycling home from work I see that they are out in force, from three year olds in pyjamas and rabbit ears to girls on the brink of puberty, about to overbalance into the top- heavy world of womanhood. Witches and monsters, sweating inside their rubber masks, rub cheeks with fairies in tulle tutus waving silvery wands. In Annandale, an eight- year- old Grim Reaperette brandishes a paper mache scythe: a Balmain vampire knocks with trepidation on the door of a nineteenth century stone cottage, urged on by her mother who waits in the shadows by the gate.

And so Australian infants rot their teeth on the rituals of another hemisphere, transplanted and transformed into an excuse for an evening walk on the cusp of summer. This antipodean perversion of meaning gives me huge pleasure.