A friend turned up late to the Halloween Party we were all at on Friday night. Her and her partner have bought their first house in a pleasant, but largely state-house suburb on the fringes of Auckland City. As she took note of the party-goer's costumes (a stormtrooper, Sarah Palin post-assassination, an assortment of mummies) she told us of the trick or treaters that came to her door.
One group of children turned up, half a dozen or so "with barely a costume between them." One had a cowboy hat, another was wearing rollerskates. As she handed out the candy to the children one by one, she asked each of them with interest (she's a teacher) who they'd come as.
"So you're a… cowboy?" she asked the young man in the cowboy hat.
"Yep" he nodded, accepting his lollypop.
"And you're a rollerskater?"
"Yes."
As she made the rounds, a young boy came to the porch, simply wearing a sweatshirt and trackpants.
"And what are you?"
"Glenn Close."
"Sorry, did you say Glenn Close?"
"Yup."
"Glenn Close?" she repeated, searching his outfit for clues.
"Yup. Glenn Close."
"Glenn Close the actress? From Damages?"
"No…" he repeated frustratedly, gesturing at his shirt and pants. "I got clean clothes."