I love fireworks. I especially love fireworks in November. I am the person who usually encourages her friends to go and stand outside in the cold, so that she can watch the pretty colours in the sky, with her mouth wide open, making the occasional noise that perfectly demonstrates giddy excitement and euphoria. In my adult years, this may have been enhanced by warm spiced cider and/or a hot toddy out of a flask.
I am sure that Guy Fawkes wanted to leave behind another sort of legacy on 5 November 1605 to the one he eventually did, but you can’t always get what you want. Something I know all too well. I, however, love the diluted legacy he left us with; fireworks in the sky for the week around 5th November. I prefer this to burning an effigy on a bonfire. I don’t think it sends the right message to the kids. Scarfs, hats, gloves, sparklers, toffee apples and jacket potatoes. That is the sort of commemoration I like, as long as it is accompanied by fireworks in the sky of course.
I am not able to go to a firework display this year and my patio is too small to safely bring fireworks to me, though I did get to handle two and a half sparklers yesterday. Some sparkler action has only gone so far. When you live in London, the minute it gets dark in the days around Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November, strangers across the city try to recreate the Blitz. Well, the sound of the Blitz, not the bad stuff. Every crackle and bang is a reminder that I cannot go and stand outside for half an hour and then navigate the inevitable transport issues afterwards.
This is indeed a shame.
I don’t want to make a political or a religious statement, but it is not a shame that Guy Fawkes and his merry men failed to blow up the Houses of Parliament 407 years ago.
I am not one dwell, so, let us all take a look at the smile on my face yesterday. It is indeed a smile.