FOR the first time in a couple of years, I succumbed to the offspring’s nagging to go to an organised firework display.
There’s the other issue of not knowing how smaller kids will react. As a toddler Dougie had the screaming ab-dabs at a cub firework display and we had to head home sharpish. He’s 11 now and loves ’em.
Living in a town centre rather than a village makes a difference. While many villages have a pleasant community event, with soup and sparklers and a bar nearby, us townies have to settle for endless pyrotechnics and the sound of gunpowder for two weeks leading up to and after November 5.
Quite frankly, it takes the fun out of fireworks when the squeals and blasts go off every night, all night, and wake up your kids.
However, there was an organised Fireworks Do at Casuals Rugby Club, where the boys play, so I relented.
As I stood for what felt like hours with our rain-soaked seven-year-old beside the dripping pushchair which held our indignant-to-be-strapped-in two-year-old, as our drenched eldest sons played football in the mud, I remembered again why I don’t do Bonfire Night. It’s cold, and wet, and boring.
Then the fireworks started. Youngest two instantly covered ears and eyes, until they were cajoled to look at the amazing sight of stars and colours and sparkles of light bursting in the sky above us. It was ten minutes of whizz-banging joy to make up for all the discomfort and waiting.
No one minded the journey home in a damp and muddy car, and there’s something to be said for the pleasure of getting back to a warm house and into warm clothes.
Next year though, I’m definitely staying indoors.