Tim Davey: The Halloween pumpkin had its day

This large lump of an object had been occupying a space in the dining room for a couple of weeks.

Looking for all the world like a beach ball that's had a dodgy spray tan session, it was threatening to take up permanent residence. Action was needed, otherwise there was a danger it could have claimed squatters' rights and remained in situ until the day, presumably, it shrivelled away with old age.

I refer, of course, to the Halloween Pumpkin.

There were doubts expressed at the time of its purchase but my wife, dropping the exceedingly weighty globe into our shopping trolley, was adamant it could be utilised to mark the annual over-the-top celebration of witches, ghouls and ghosts.

It would, she declared, be hollowed out and carved into a scary candle holder-cum-lantern.

The innards would be used to create a gourmet pumpkin soup.

I wasn't so sure, given that all the grandchildren and their parents had appointments elsewhere that night, but I kept my mouth firmly shut for fear an old crone would damn me with a witch's curse.

In fact, Halloween came and went without a single caller. The multi-packs of sweeties all went unclaimed. My fiendish trick of shrouding Davey mansions in a cloak of darkness, eating Saturday night's dinner in a stygian gloom and pulling every curtain tight shut, worked.

So as the week progressed the pumpkin still survived. Intact.

All thoughts of soup, mercifully, had evaporated from my wife's consciousness.

But Thursday dawned and would, by the evening's end, prove to be our salvation. This was Bonfire Night. All the grandchildren were heading our way.

A small bonfire had been assembled. The all-weather barbecue cover had been removed, ready to burn a few burgers and sausages. The all-important box of fireworks had been bought. Though, let's be honest, one box is never enough if you're going to upset the neighbours.

So, along with explosive Roman Candles, I have, rather childishly, always bought some screaming rockets capable of making anyone within earshot sit up abruptly and take notice.

The little ones always hate them but, hey, it's my night, too. However, this year, in true caring grandad fashion, I deferred their purchase – until New Year's Eve!

And the pumpkin? Well it was about to have its day. With true Blue Peter creativeness, I sliced a bit off the top and bottom to make it flat, then cut it in half. End result: a pair of instant firework holders.

They worked perfectly, though one rogue firework would have splattered orange goo everywhere, creating an effect similar to when I was a lad in the country. Only then we used a banger and a fresh cowpat.