Going Up In Smoke

After thirty-three previous November 5ths in which I can’t claim to have set light to anything, I broke my fireworks duck this year with a less-than-spectacular pyrotechnic display in the back garden.

Gingerly brandishing a lighter at a succession of fuses at arm’s length and scampering back the regulation five metres, the £20 box of Garden Fireworks resulted in a Technicolor display which dazzled the family (and assembled garden life – hedgehogs and the like) for what seemed like minutes, firing miniature balls of coloured flame sometimes literally metres into the air where they swiftly fizzed, popped and died.

I couldn’t help but feel a bit of “fireworks-envy” though as I noticed that neighbours seemed to possess much more impressive combustibles which ka-boomed with twice the noise and exploded with a spectrum of colours that weren’t present in ours. However, as everyone knows, it’s not the size of your firework, it’s how you ignite it that counts.

Sydney 2000 it wasn’t, but it was enjoyable nonetheless. There’s an inherent pleasure to be had at setting light to things (which is sadly, for the most part, legally limited to Bonfire Night and barbeques.)

Now, with my first “display” under my belt I feel confident I can upgrade to more spectacular efforts. If the Olympics ever came to a small village in Wiltshire, I’d be more than happy to offer my services for the closing ceremony, standing in the middle of a 100,000 seater stadium (of which there are countless examples around here) with a couple of Roman candles and thumb poised on a Bic. Hang on to your hats ladies and gents, and prepare to “ooh!” and “aah!”

As a brief aside, it was miles better than those Indoor Fireworks which were around years ago: my only memory of them was watching a small spiral object that half-resembled a mosquito coil and half-resembled a dog turd splutter unspectacularly on a coffee table, much to the disappointment of the kids that encircled it. Setting fire to real dog shit would have been much more fun.