Fire works

I love fireworks.  Love them.  It is almost impossible to stop me from ooo-ing and ahhh-ing at even the smallest Roman Candle. 

Years ago I lived in a house on a hill.  There was a scratch of land behind my back yard that I grandly named The Common; the locals called it The Rec.  It was a great place to play. 

Every year I’d have a Bonfire Night party where people were invited to contribute a firework in return for a jacket potato and hot dog.  The first time we gathered we suffered an hour of pathetic fizzes from poxy multi-packs.

It launched an arms race. 

From that year on, everyone, and by that I mean the Boys obviously, bought the single largest rockets they could find.  The result was an annual cannonade that rivalled the softening up barrage of the Somme.

It was a Local Spectacle that drew the resident Yorkshire Folk out to watch.  Ah, them were the days.

Tonight we all went to an organised display at the local school with S wrapped up in coat, hat and gloves, T in her Wellingtons and me, straight from work, in smart shoes and a light jacket, looking like a Fish Out of Water.

But nothing could dampen my enthusiasm.  Of course, They have banned sparklers.  Too dangerous.  I suspect the same spoil sport would frown at my habit of reading the firework instructions by the illumination of a lit match.  But s, knowing no better, was delighted by her glo-stick.

Not so the actual display.  It’s all very well watching from the safety of the bedroom window; being exposed in the open air – an entirely different story.

She didn’t cry.  But she didn’t like it.  We retreated two hundred metres and eventually, with my hands over her ears, she finally stopped complaining that it was “a bit loud.”

Still, at least it stopped her from noticing all the people pointing at the twit in the mud-covered suit.

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[Saurbram]

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