I’ve always been a bit scared of fireworks, mainly by proxy.
When I was too young to remember it seems that a firework was bunged through the letterbox of the shitty old council flat I started to grow up in, scaring the bejesus (even though she is not Irish) out of my mum and narrowly avoiding my playing in the next room.
Understandably my mum doesn’t really like fireworks much, and my childhood was certainly uncluttered by them. Apart from watching the the garden I cold see from my bedroom widow every year having fireworks parties, until one year their house was boarded up after being repossessed like all the others in the recession.
I never was allowed (nor wanted to) play with fireworks and so have little excitement each year when the annual setting off of craply made explosives is accepted and not a terrorist attack.
The party is good, the fireworks are good, I am a little drunk on the wine I finally chose and am enjoying it all.
Then two of the biggest fireworks what I ever saw where brought out, both the size of small children these would certainly be impressive.
They were both lit at once.
The first one shot up into the night sky and exploded in a mass of pretty colours.
The second one did not shoot up into the sky, everyone went “oh”, knowing that it was a bit of a dud and therefore disappointing.
Then everyone simultaneously realised that the important bit might still happen and we all ran away further than we already were.
It exploded in a mass of pretty colours…and smoke.
I don’t think anyone was hurt, I got a bit in the leg, but not burnt, just bruising.
My lovely friend Emma now has slight tiny bald patch from a bit of flaming firework.
Hmm.
Think I’ll stick to watching from my window.