My intense dislike of fireworks more or less stems from the Trip To Grasmere. It was two years ago, and our church organised a weekend away to the Lake District. We had a lovely weekend, really, except for the fireworks party on the second night. I think it must have been Guy Fawkes’ night, or very close to it, and whoever was charged with the responsibility for buying the fireworks chose BIG ones. I mean, big. Three feet long, not the piddling little rockets of my childhood.

It was only the second or third to be lit, the one that fell over. It was a complete miracle (and I use the word advisedly…) that no-one was [seriously] hurt. It shot off horizontally across the garden, narrowly missing most of the children, and hitting a tree. It was the type of rocket that was supposed to explode in the air, spawn half a dozen balls of coloured flame, all of which would subsequently explode, so you can imagine the chaos – people throwing themselves in front of children, gunpowder erupting all over the garden. It was a most alarming experience, and how none of the brats was hit, I’ll never know. We got away with a severely bruised leg (those bits of gunpowder travel at some speed, you know) and a singed fleecey.

Tonight, we went to the Proper Display – Sefton Park, 6:30pm showing. Among the things I am afraid of, stands getting a bit of red hot firework in my eye, whilst I’m staring up at the sky, and for this reason, we stayed well back (to minimise the extent to which we were looking up) and stood under a tree (for overhead protection). Plus, insane people with sparklers (Are you MAD? Hotter than the gas oven!!!) obligingly stayed in other parts of the park. So it wasn’t too bad.

Still a bit of an exercise in endurance, though.