  This is old - but thought I'd whack it in anyway. FREE TO A GOOD HOME: ONE SMALL BOY. REASON FOR RE-HOMING: MOTHER SUDDENLY ALLERGIC TO HIM. Something terrible has happened to my son. Where once was a charming if cheeky toddler now stands – and I hate to admit it, but let’s be honest here – a psychotic monster. More experienced mothers have tried to reassure me that it’s his age.
Joe’s two, going on three. But I know that my beautiful, funny, delightful darling could never scream at me through clenched teeth for the best part of an hour of his own free will. No, there is only one explanation. He has been possessed by Satan. It’s not a total tenure – the dark one seems to be using him as some sort of demonic time share, popping in every now and then when he needs to get away from it all. But when he arrives all hell breaks loose.
The first time it happened I’d just tried to take off Joe’s shoes. An every day occurrence in an every day home you’d think, except it wasn’t Joe’s home. It was his grandmother’s. Joe had spent the afternoon with my in-laws and had, of course, behaved impeccably (Lucifer never shows up unless I’m around). Then I arrived, having unwittingly picked up your man - who had obviously been hitchhiking along the A316, intent on getting to Feltham – along the way. Anyway, it was late, so we decided to give Joe a bath and get him ready for bed before setting off for home.
First step - off with the Clark’s t-bars. Now maybe they don’t have sandals in Hades, but Joe reacted as if I was trying to remove his milk teeth without anaesthetic. It was an impressive display of power, the like of which your average poltergeist could only dream of achieving. His favourite Fireman Sam book flew across the room, closely followed by his Anyway Up Cup (God moves in mysterious ways, leak-proof lids being one of them). “Maybe he’s sickening for something” said my mum-in-law kindly. But any thought of administering medication left me as I ducked to avoid a low flying chocolate digestive.
If I needed a sign I had it in that spurned treat. I didn’t need Calpol. I needed a priest or, better still, Buffy The Vampire Slayer. However, this being a Sunday night I figured the first would be busy and, as my husband keeps trying to impress on me, the latter’s a fictional TV character and not a suitable role model for a 35 year old mother of one. Instead I tried desperately to regain control of the situation without resorting to matching Joe in volume and vitriol - but with no knowledge of Latin or exorcism rites I made a pathetic adversary. (Frankly, I should have trusted my first instincts and simply bashed Joe over the head with a cross.
Dr Spock might not have approved, but it’s what Buffy would have wanted. ) Satan stayed put during the enforced bath – the fastest one in the Flanagan family history. (It’s kind of difficult to wash a toddler who is intent on knocking himself out on the taps. ) And then, as quickly as he’d arrived, he left. Using the peace fire to make our escape, I drove my son, who was now doing his best “Look I’ve got an entire packet of Lurpak in my gob and it isn’t melting” impression, home and threw him into bed, before necking a large glass of wine in one. This having been my first encounter with Lucifer, I was, after all, still in shock.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of my son singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and, apart from a particularly heinous nappy, no sign of Satan. My beautiful brown eyed boy was charm personified, unable to turn his head 360 degrees and seemingly oblivious to the previous night’s events (apparently this is a common sign of possession in toddlers, they explode with a nuclear intensity and then have little or no recollection of what has happened). The next few days passed uneventfully, so much so that I had begun to hope the initial visitation had proved so extreme that Holidays From Hell (“A lifetime of suffering – guaranteed!”) had cancelled all future reservations. But that’s Satan for you – he lulls you into a false sense of calm and then chucks a plateful of pasta primavera in your face when you and the other diners and staff at Ask Pizza are least expecting it. (“A lunchtime of suffering – guaranteed!”) And all I did was try to get the host body to wear a bib. I can only conclude that Satan has a peculiar dress sense for, bib and shoe fetishes aside, there’s also his aversion to sleeves – I mean, what’s all that about?
Not only does Beelzebub loathe having his own ones rolled up, but anyone else showing a bit of lower arm is an affront to his senses too. While hardly Purdah, there’s something almost Talibanesque about his commitment to this bizarre dress code and I can only pray that trousers on women remain acceptable. Corroboration that cleanliness is next to Godliness comes at bath time, when neither hell nor high water will convince Satan to get wet. Then, unpredictable little fiend that he is, when it’s time to get out he moves heaven and earth (and a large quantity of bath water) in his attempt to stay put. Confused? So am I.
To be honest it’s got to the point where I’ve given up trying to diagnose when my Dr Jekyll junior will become Master Hyde, although Sartre may well have been on to something – for Hell is often other people; invariably those I am keen to impress. (A particularly broody ex-colleague from the BBC who had stuck at a job she hated in order to qualify for maternity leave has had a coil fitted, waved goodbye to her staff pension and was last seen heading for Koh Samui after a hellacious half hour with my son. ) Meanwhile, I’ve taken solace from celestial surveys that suggest possession is not permanent. Apparently similar case studies have shown the effects last on average between one and two years, with visitations tapering off as the child gets older. The only downside is that they can return with a vengeance when the victim turns thirteen. Symptoms include wanting to paint your bedroom black, listening to loud rock music and hating your parents for no apparent reason – which, come to think of it, all sounds vaguely familiar.
Could it be that this sort of thing runs in families? 
