Goodbye Halloween Frog

The Halloween Frog is gone now.

This morning, while it was quiet, I went up the street with my trusty spade and I slid it under him, lifted him, and carried him to the copse at the bottom of the green. There, among the grass clippings and the secateured twigs, I laid him to rest.

This wasn’t good neighbourliness or even civic duty. The Halloween Frog had been playing on my mind, sufficient to be the subject of this week’s blog entry. So it was in my own interests to see him moved on to somewhere less public.

I can close the book on him now… right after I’ve told you a bit about him.

The Halloween Frog showed up a few days before Halloween. At first, I thought he was still alive. He was sat on the pavement, right on the corner where one street in the Estate becomes another. It was nice to see him, a perfect little frog right there on our street. It wasn’t a normal sight. It was kind of cool. Except. Well, except he was dead, of course. That became clear pretty quickly, on closer examination. I wondered what had killed him. He was in a perfectly natural Froggie pose and there wasn’t a mark on him. Not then at least. I gave a mental shrug and moved on. Nothing to see here.

He was still there on my way home from work and he was a slightly less welcome sight, now that it was clear that he had not moved since I saw him last nor would he ever move again. Not of his own accord anyway. If he was ever going to move again, somebody was going to have to move him.

And nobody did.

He was quite the little stroll from my house so I didn’t see it as my thing to be going up there and moving him. Maybe I should have. Eventually I did. But not soon enough. Not quite soon enough.

On the second day, the day before Halloween, the frog had developed an extrusion of white foam from its mouth area. It seemed a little flatter on the ground. Not quite the firm, rounded, figure of the day before. On Halloween itself, the foam was slightly more pronounced and the roundedness was slightly less so. Something was happening, that was for sure, and it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t fun.

And, because of the day and night that was in it, this thought started to rattle around in my head. Death is not fun. The rapid deterioration of the mortal frame is not cool or attractive by any stretch of any imagination. Yet here we were in that day and evening when little corpses come out and circumnavigate the neighbourhood in search of sugary treats. Their homes are decorated with long haired skulls that scream silently at passing folk, their front gardens boast half open caskets with skeletal hands groping their way out.

And, all the while, a very real creature was slowly turning to corruption, right out there on the front street.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Halloween. Always have. As a kid I was fascinated by walking skeletons and spooks and Hollywood monsters. Just like all the other kids. Hell, I still am. It’s just, this year, the little frog and its insalubrious public deterioration made me wonder a bit. I wondered about what logic drives us to encourage this fascination in death and ‘the skull beneath the skin’ in our little kids. Are we preparing them for something in the nicest, most fun, way possible? Or are we cocking a snook at the fate that inevitably awaits us all a little way down the road?

You can see why I needed to get my spade, this sunny Sunday morning, and commit the frog-corpse back the wood from whence it hopefully came. By this morning it was a flat jelly-like simulacrum of a reptile, covered in billows of grey viscous foam.

Halloween is a very good thing, to my mind. But it is also good that it keeps itself a considerable distance from the truth of the things it proports to celebrate. It also helps that it dodges two of the most unavoidable realities of death.

One, that we won’t really continue to look all that cool after we go.

And two, that we are not ever coming back.

Getting Back on the Horse

In any given year, there are two danger moments in the life of this little blog.

This is one of them.

The first always comes on New Year’s Day or, to put it more accurately, on the first day of the year when a new blog post is required. The second comes when the produced work for the year is finished, as it is just now. This year, just like last year, it was the plays with Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society. A wonderful experience but, as the man says, it’s all over now.

The two moments are the same but different. Try to imagine a little writing demon sitting on each of my shoulders, one being bad and one being good, and both of them whispering in my ears. At both of these danger times, the bad demon’s whispers are way, way louder than the puny good demon perched on the other side.

“What’s the point?” she says.

“Blogging died ten years ago, yet here you still are. Give it up. Instead of piddling it up against the wall, why don't you put this bit of writing energy into something that might actually become something, that might actually do something,” she says.

“Just stop,” she says.

The good demon, on the other shoulder, stays largely silent.

The reason that these danger moments occur is straightforward. On each of these two occasions, you see, I simply fall off the horse. The first occasion has a reason that is both straightforward and universal. Christmas. Once again, as with other years, I will have gleefully allowed my brain to stew in an orgy of old movies, family visits, and tins of Cadbury Roses. By the time the New Year comes around, I can no longer remember how to ride the horse that is my blogging habit. 

It’s much the same thing when the production of the plays comes to an end. Although I’ve been writing blog posts all the way through that process, the majority of those posts will have been about the plays, the rehearsals, the actors, the production. They sort of write themselves. Now that the plays are over, here is that famous blank screen in front of me once again and that girthy little demon sitting at my ear, telling me over and over that I simply shouldn’t bother. It’s a persuasive voice.

Yet here I am, scribbling.

Why is that?

Easy.

I don’t listen to my little demons, good or bad. I listen to myself. Also I find it hard to stop doing things… any things. If I have a pair of old shoes with holes in the soles and catastrophised uppers, I find it hard to stop wearing them. The Status Quo must be maintained wherever possible. This imperative drives me back, time and again, to the blank page. Even when the current blog post will only be a directionless ramble, as this one will clearly be, I am still here. Putting down the words.

But it’s more that that. This thing that brings me back and back to this rather fruitless endeavour, after 15 plus years of it.

Simple.

It’s good for me.

It’s good for my head and it’s really good for my writing. This almost-weekly act of compiling some increasingly elusive thoughts into a passably coherent thousand word post is an exercise that keeps my writing muscle in trim. When I come to write my other stuff, my fingers know where the keys are and my brain largely knows what is readable and what is not. (Said he, in a largely unreadable sentence).

I’ve said it before. I love it when people come and read these silly words and I love it even more when they tell me what they think of them, good or bad. But, over the years, this exercise has become far more about me than about you. Sorry about that, but it’s true. The thing that drags me back here, after Christmas revelries and Theatrical adventures are all done, well, it’s not good demons or force of habit or anything like that.

It’s just me.

So on we go. What will the next blog post be about, or the one after that? Not a clue, sorry.

All I know is, if I don’t get hit by a tram or something, I’ll be here working on them.

Be still, bad demon.

I’m writing here.

An Open Letter to Cast, Crew, Arts Centre, and Audience

Our two evenings at The Linenhall Arts Centre, which culminated last night, ticked several bucket list items for me. These included, bringing The Doubles Partner back to stage with a dream cast, finally having a go at subverting a raffle, and, joy of joys, getting to see my slightly rogue ‘A Sort of Whodunnit’ play realised at last for an audience.

Both nights were wonderful for me, in slightly different ways. On Thursday I got to be what I like to be on these theatrical evenings: a man who has most of his work done, who just needs to make sure a few final bits and pieces are in place. On these occasions, and last Thursday, I tend to lap up the atmosphere and commit all the loveliness to careful memory.

Friday’s show came from a different angle. By prior agreement, I had undertaken to play a part myself in the middle ‘Raffle’ half a play. I resolved many moons ago to stay firmly on the dark side of the floodlights but needs must and the show must go on. So, Friday evening I was a sweaty little bag of nerves, trying to memorise all the blasted lines I had so blithely written. Serves me right. In fairness, it was a memorable experience, to momentarily become, once again, a part of the nervous pre-show actorly energy. And, also in fairness, it was a genuine treat to get to stand on stage with my good friend Ronan Egan, a place where he so clearly belongs and I so clearly do not.

I want to write some heart felt "Thank Yous"…

To the actors (in order of appearance on stage):

The Doubles Partner: Donna Ruane, Eamon Smith, and Vivienne Lee.

The Raffle: Ronan Egan, Katie Padden, Jim Finan, Caoimhe Halligan, and Kate Loftus.

A Sort of Whodunnit: Eithne McGreal, Matthew Largent, Brendan Mullins, and Eimear Philbin.

Each and every actor made me feel lucky and grateful for what they brought to our little party. Thank you all!

I am always shaken and amazed at the levels of time and commitment that such talented folk are willing to give to my inane scribblings. I am forever in debt for the depth, width, and breadth you bring to the black and white words on the pages.

To the people who make the shows happen:

Anne Marie Gibbons: The ever-smiling powerhouse, the Maestra of the Direct Message, the  Vixen of the Voicemail, without whom nothing good would ever happen and nothing tricky would ever get done.

George Bernard Gallagher and Barry Keavney, Technical Gurus at The Linenhall Theatre: Ever stalwart, nothing too much trouble, did everything possible to provide us with a gleamingly lovely theatre space replete with lights and sound.

Sandra Gibbons and Declan Gibbons: The hardest-working Stage Managers this side of the Shannon. Ever cool, always with a solution to any problem. You both have saved my skin several times over and I am eternally grateful.

All of the Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society esteemed members, who came to help at front of house and with the raffle (boy, did I mess you up with the raffle!!)  :) 

The Entire Staff of The Linenhall Arts Centre, from Management through Front of House peeps: You’re doubtless fed up looking at me, coming and going, with my sound effect skirting boards tucked under my arm, looking for something else. But you never say 'no', if you can help it, and the yeses always come with a friendly smile. Who could ask for anything more from their friendly neighbourhood Arts Centre?

Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society: For a second year running, you let me run amok in your joyous sandbox of talent and commitment. It’s an unbelievable gift to be able to display my writing through your titanic society (‘Titanic’ as in ‘large’… not as in 'hitting icebergs'). I’ve got to do all these bucket list things with you. I’ve made highly valued new friends. I’ve lived the dream, really, these last few months.

And, finally, to the audiences. Each night, you came out and paid your hard earned dosh to see us. Rest assured, your money will all go to ensure a great musical production in March ’26. It couldn’t happen without you. More than anything, though, you came with your smiles and your pleasure at being out with friends and family and, for me, that’s one of the very best things.

So thank you. Thank you all!

And now, suitably inspired, I intend to retire to my untidy room for the hopefully short Winter, to try to write something entirely brand new, and to then see if anyone might like to meet up for a small reading…

K x

18^th October 2025