When I die, I would like to go peacefully, in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.

Equal parts Pacman and David Lynch, I like to think of the tail lights of the cars in front as we cross the Tasman Bridge as hungry little ghosts eating the sins of teenagers the world over.

That’s right, it’s Theme Thursday, and we’re talking GHOSTs.

They’re odd birds, ghosts; never happy, always moaning, wailing, dragging chains about and getting ectoplasm on the good curtains. A lot like children in that regard.

I’ve never liked ghosts. Call me spectrally-bigoted, but the notion of some undead soul wandering through my walls while I’m endeavouring to seduce my wife is just plain wrong.

So no, I won’t be signing any of your goody goody, namby pamby, hoity toity, wishy washy, lardy dardy, know it all know nothing do gooders petitions to give ghosts and ghoulies the vote.

No siree.

The only moaning welcome in my house is be either a bit of the other or "if I have to tell you to pick those toys up one more time..."