IT has been drawn to my attention that I am not going to live forever. One day I will fall off the mortality bus. My life membership card will expire, and the doorman of destiny will shove me through the fire exit into oblivion.

I am going to die.

Well, I'll believe it when it happens. However, it is prudent to plan for every eventuality. That is why the Vatican has a crche and Leeds United a trophy cabinet.

We are always being told to save for our retirement. To afford the little luxuries in old age, like food and heating, you need to start a pension fund sometime between birth and the severance of your umbilical cord.

But why stop there? Shouldn't we also be planning our afterlife?

This is the one week in the year when the bloodcurdling noises that spread terror through the York night are not necessarily the work of boys in baseball caps. They could instead be created by the yobs of the spirit world, or ghouligans as they are known.

York is Hallowe'en central, having more zombies per square yard than the House of Lords. Unfortunately, they are a tight-lipped bunch. All we get is an apparition here, an orb of light there. What have they got to be so miserable about? Apart from being dead, I mean?

That said, having attended various positive thinking management seminars, I now view death very much as an opportunity waiting to happen. I have decided to start preparing for the afterlife now, so if (or when) death occurs I can hit the ground floating.

The first thing on my list is to attend my funeral. I don't expect much: my earthly remains floating down the Ouse in a burning longship, the Archbishop of York and the Prime Minister sharing a pedalo behind. Simple, yet moving.

The next job is to seek out the answers to all those niggling questions. Who created the universe, and when will it be finished? Who shot JFK - is my theory, suicide, correct?

Once I am up to speed on life, the universe and everything, I can get to work. York's phantoms, it strikes me, are getting a raw deal. They need organising, and my role will be a sort of supernatural shop steward.

The tourist board advertises York as Britain's most haunted city; virtually every pub claims to host a spirit or two to lure in the visitors; there are ghost books, videos, walking tours and conferences. It is a major industry.

But what do the spectres get? Absolutely nothing. They are being exploited.

That will change with the formation of my union, the Alliance of Apparitions, Related Ghosts and Haunters (AARGH). Our demands will be:

1. Better hours. Why can't ghosts work 9-5 for a change? All those night shifts wreck your work-death balance.

2. A formal pay structure. It's time to pay dirty-faced Victorian street urchins a dying wage. Meanwhile, a headless horseman with four chargers and a runaway carriage should get top whack. Think of the running costs.

3. Sponsorship deals. Imagine the marketing potential if the ghost of Guy Fawkes were to endorse Nurofen, or Erik Bloodaxe recommended the latest Black & Decker powersaw. Phenomenal.

If these requests were not met immediately, we'd strike. Overnight, all the ghosts would vanish. York leaders would soon agree to meet our terms, as the impact on the city's invisible earnings would be devastating.

So that's my death organised. Now I've just got to get my life sorted out.

Updated: 10:17 Wednesday, October 29, 2003