I live in a quiet village in the south of England and as you would think, crime is something that I see on the news. Imagine my suprise when last night I came face to face with organised crime in my village. Whilst sat idle in front of the television supping a brew, I had a knock at the door. "Who can that be?" thinks I. Surely not the Jehovis Witnesses again after the last visit and the mock religious sacrifice (but that's another story). I turned the key and opened the door to hear "Trick or Treat." What, surely it can't be Paul Daniels come round to do a magic show or to treat me to a fine bottle of red. Oh no, despite the similarity in height, it was no Paul Daniels and the lovely Debbie Maggee at my door but a motley collection of ankle biters. "Trick or Treat" they repeated. It now all became clear. These poor fools had watched too many American TV programmes and honesty believed that the average man in Britian would have a collection of sweets to ply them with for wearing a 99p ghost mask and knocking on their door. Well as we all know, kids today are fat little weezey critters so I felt it my duty to tell them to "Sod Off". Who can blame me? I was only saving them from years of heart trouble and elasticated trousers. I was to learn a real lesson for my civic good nature. Upon my rebuke, the leader of the pocket sized lynch mob said "If you don't give us some sweets we'll make you wish you had." I looked at him. My fear levels did not rise despite his clear threat as I towered above him by a good foot and a half. His "scary" costume consisted of a jacket, jeans and a skeleton mask. He looked about as frightening as Christopher Biggins in a tutu. It was then that I looked at what he was holding...a fecking knife. I don't mean a a plastic toy knife, but a big fecking, steel, open you up at the navel, knife. Who the feck lets their kids stalk the streets of safe old southern England with a kitchen knife? What was more worrying, is that this little Reggy Kray had demanded sweets whilst brandishing a knife. I was being robbed on my own doorstep by Jimmy Crankie in a mask. I did the only honorable thing. I slammed the door in their faces and locked it. All safe now thinks I. Oh no. They start shouting through the letterbox and banging on the windows. I feared for my car parked outside. Feck it, I feared for my life. I was being terrorised in my own home by sugar fuelled Umpalumpas...with knives. I took the Christian approach and retired into the sancutary of the living room safe in the knowledge they would soon get bored and that any action I took would be an over-reaction. Turn the other cheek and be a man. Or was it that I was terrified to do anything. They had me out-numbered. What should I have done? Called the police? And become the focus of derision for failing to face down a bunch of kids. Taken my hand-axe and chased then away? And become the girlfriend of Crusher as I serve 5 years in Holloway. Doing nothing was all I could do. Not a very nice experience to be a prisoner in your own home and one I am determined not to repeat. Next year I shall be prepared. I am going to get a Guard Mong. A 18 stone, dribbling, slavvering half-wit to frighten the little sh1ts away...or am I just going to stock up on the Cola Bottles.