I had what can only be described as a Pumpkin-Heavy Sunday. Never have I said the word “pumpkin” so many times in such a short space of time; never have I seen so many pumpkins in such a short space of time.
I’ve never been particularly interested in pumpkins or, for that matter, pumpkin carving – incredibly labour intensive, isn’t it" Just to produce something that will hold an Ikea tea light for an evening and then end up rotting next to the bins for a month afterwards. The insides of them make me want to boak, I’m not crazy for the soup you have to make with the flesh (unless it has copious amounts of chilli added to it) and the pie, Pumpkin Pie… I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just never had a good one.
So, this whole craze for the pumpkin-picking thing that you see all over Instagram was never going to be something that floated my boat. Did I want to stand about like a dickhead in a field of engorged gouds, posing with my prize pick and pretending to have a great time" No I did not.
But I went a-picking, my friends, and I did it for my offspring.

They didn’t give a flying shit about pumpkin picking: halfway to the pumpkin field one of them wanted a wee and the other wanted a snack. Had I not had one of my oldest friends with me, who knows me so well she may as well be my brain, I might have lost the plot. I had inappropriate footwear on (boots that weren’t as waterproof as they should have been...