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Dear Bruno,

Mummy would like to apologise for crippling you with terror on Hallowe’en night.

When the chap at the petting farm asked if you were old enough for the ‘Scary Tractor Ride’ as we stumbled through the pitch-black field, Mummy laughed because she thought he was making a funny joke.

It’s true, the green-faced witch with the odd stillness did have prescription-drug eyes but she only shone her flashlight in your face a couple of times.

The crouching bag-of-bones skeleton searching for his missing body parts who mounted the ride was quite a surprise though, wasn’t he?

Perhaps less so than the re-enactment of his craven encounters with the psychotic scarecrow on the wicker platforms erected around the meadow of spent corn-sheaves.

But if you think about it, the slow trundling of the tractor through the flattened husks might have been quite boring without the irregular hollow grunts from the darkness and random grabbing through the railings.

And, deary me, what an unexpected fellow with tangled wig and chainsaw popped up at the end, shortly before you and your little quickened heart were coerced into pelting the pumpkin effigy with shrivelled yellow cobs.

For the record, Mummy wants to say to you now- and to any therapists who may be digging around in the future- that none of this was planned and that bad dreams are just your mind’s clever-clogs way of clearing out its demented fears.


Mummy x


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