We've Lost the Plot. And It's Sitting on the Front Step.

I have a confession to make.

I am part of the problem.

Every year, I buy pumpkins. I bring them home, carve them, admire them for a few days and then, eventually, dispose of them. I know perfectly well that pumpkins are food. I know they can be roasted, turned into soup and generally made useful in ways that don't involve sticking a tea light inside them.

And yet, every October, I find myself standing in front of a display of pumpkins thinking, Ooh, we'll have a few of those.

This year, however, things have escalated.

We have four.

Four actual pumpkins.

Because Eliza decided that this year we should all carve versions of ourselves into them. One for me, one for her, one for the other half and one for our cat, Neptune.

Our cat.

A creature who spends a considerable portion of his day sleeping, eating, looking vaguely offended and occasionally knocking things off surfaces for reasons known only to himself.

And now he has his own pumpkin portrait.

I mean, really. What are we at?

The cat hasn't contributed financially to the pumpkin budget. He hasn't helped with the carving. He won't be available for the clean-up of all the weird, stringy innards. And yet, somehow, he's been allocated his own seasonal tribute.

It's disgraceful.

And I am fully complicit.

The great pumpkin scandal

It turns out I'm not alone in my annual pumpkin-related nonsense.

A report published this week estimates that 60% of pumpkins bought for Halloween in Ireland end up being thrown away. That's a fairly spectacular amount of food being purchased, carved into faces and then sent off to an undignified end.

It's not as though pumpkins are difficult to find a use for. You can roast them, make soup, bake with them or toast the seeds for a snack.

But for many of us, that's not really the point of buying one, is it?

We buy them to decorate the house. To make Halloween feel like Halloween. To have a bit of fun with the kids. To put something seasonal on the doorstep that looks vaguely threatening to the postman.

Then Halloween passes, the decorations come down, and the pumpkin's career is over.

Into the bin it goes.

Next!

A pumpkin takes time, land, water and work to grow. It has to be harvested, transported and sold. Someone has put effort into producing it. We bring it home, carve a face into it and, in many cases, never give a second thought to what happens next.

I say this as someone who has just turned four pumpkins into a family portrait gallery, complete with cat.

I'm not writing this from a position of moral superiority. I'm writing it from the middle of the pumpkin problem, with photographic evidence.

We do love a bit of seasonal nonsense

I'm not suggesting we cancel Halloween. Far from it.

I love the silliness of it all. I love that we have a night when children can dress up as vampires, witches and things that defy any reasonable description, then knock on strangers' doors demanding sweets.

I love the decorations, the costumes and the general permission to be a bit ridiculous.

I particularly love that it originated in Ireland of course.

But I do wonder whether we've become a little too comfortable with the idea that something can be bought for a few days of enjoyment and then discarded without another thought.

It's not only pumpkins, of course.

It's the outfit bought for one party. The decorations that come out for a week and disappear into a cupboard for eleven months. The novelty mug that seemed hilarious in the shop but turns out to be an absolute nuisance to wash. The things we buy because they're cheap, seasonal, amusing or simply there in front of us.

And I'm as guilty as anyone.

But I do love the idea that something can have another life. That a broken necklace doesn't necessarily have to be the end of the story. That the slightly odd thing nobody wants might turn out to be exactly the thing I need to make a standout piece.

I'm not claiming this makes me a beacon of sustainable living. I am, after all, the woman who has commissioned a vegetable portrait of her cat.

There are limits to my credibility.

And now, the aftermath

The masterpieces have been carved. All four of them. We've immortalised the family in pumpkin form, and I have to say there's something quite entertaining about seeing your own face carved into a vegetable. I'm not entirely sure it's a flattering experience, but then again, I'm not sure a pumpkin is anyone's best angle.

Neptune, naturally, has shown absolutely no interest in his likeness. We could have spent hours painstakingly recreating his furry little face and he'd still be more interested in a cardboard box or whatever happens to be happening on the other side of the window.

Still, he's got his own pumpkin. Equal billing with the rest of the family. And not a paw lifted in gratitude.

So, what happens to them now?

I suspect the question of whether anyone wants to eat a pumpkin that has spent several days sporting a carved family face might be a little harder to answer.

Still, it's worth thinking about what happens after the fun is over. Preferably before buying four enormous vegetables and turning them into a family portrait gallery.

A little less waste, a little more thought

I'm certainly not going to start telling people off for buying pumpkins. That would be a bit rich coming from someone who has given the cat his own seasonal monument.

But perhaps we could all give a little thought to what happens when the novelty wears off. If you're buying a pumpkin, consider whether you'll use the flesh afterwards. If you've already carved one, check whether it's still suitable for cooking, or how best to dispose of it responsibly.

It's not about being perfect. God knows, if perfection were the entry requirement for having an opinion, most of us would have to sit down and shut up.

It's about remembering that things don't magically stop having a purpose because we've finished enjoying them.

We can still carve pumpkins, dress up, decorate our houses and make memories with our children. We can still buy the silly thing that makes us laugh. We can have the fun and think about what comes afterwards.

And if we get it wrong sometimes? Well, we're human. Or, in Neptune's case, a cat who has achieved pumpkin immortality without doing a tap.

So this Halloween, I'll be admiring our masterpieces, taking far too many photographs and wondering how on earth we ended up giving the cat equal billing with the rest of the family.

I'll also be thinking about what happens to those four pumpkins once their moment in the spotlight is over.

Because perhaps the most frightening thing about Halloween isn't the ghosts, the ghouls or the neighbours who've covered their entire house in inflatable spiders.

Perhaps it's how easily we can turn something perfectly good into something disposable.

Next year, perhaps we'll carve ourselves into something edible.

Although, knowing us, we'll probably end up giving Neptune his own Christmas pudding.