If like me you’re of a certain age, somewhere slightly north of 21, then your head is likely filled with the terrifying public information films which were shown during the 1980s (a decade I can barely remember). As a result of this I physically recoil at the thought of a frisbee near a pylon, I know to sit under a table in the event of a nuclear war and that fireworks are potentially the most dangerous thing known to humanity.
My parents being risk (and fun) averse never really did fireworks. I have a vague memory of a poor quality Catherine wheel being nailed to the shed, when lit it promptly fell off and went mental around the garden while we watched balefully from behind locked patio doors.
One year my Dad, keen for us not to miss out on the “fun” bought some indoor fireworks. These were as dull as cheese. The one I remember the most was a black coin shaped thing which you held a lighter to and then it kind of unravelled itself like a demonic poo.
Since leaving home we’ve never had fireworks, we’ve always had a dog who is terrified of whizz-bangs. So for many years we’d escape down to Devon for Bonfire night. Fireworks in the deepest, darkest countryside are a bit frowned on due to the farm animals. Sure, we’d get some sparklers in and that would be our limit. It was actually very lovely.
These days in our new house we overlook woods and fields. We can cheerfully sit on our bed; curtains open and watch all the fireworks for miles around. There is also a local firework display on the field below. We get all the fun, none of the danger and we get to stay warm and cozy. So that’s what we’ll be doing tonight, and eating sausages and Parkin obviously, though not on the same plate.