With a Bang
Funny how customs change as you move a little down the road. Guy Fawke’s Night is not celebrated in Scotland; if anything people there mourn the fact that the good Guy’s gunpowder plot did not succeeed. Here in England it’s a different story.
I spotted the bonfires from the train back from London, thinking at first that houses were burning in the distance. In Basingstoke, where I waited for the bus, things were relatively quiet but I arrived back in Tadley literally with a bang. Red, green and yellow sparks dotted the sky. There was a smell of sulphur in the air.
The house was dark and cold, John had left for his conference in Germany. Raucous laughter rang from the neighbour’s garden. A fountain of sparks exploded with a hiss and two massive bangs rang out over the rooftops.
There was nothing to it—I grabbed a bottle of cider and walked out to the allotments where I sat on a grille spanning a small stream and watched the sky light up all around Tadley for hours, dreaming about my trip.
At ten, the fury had burned itself out. After thunder, silence. Not even one of the occasional bangs which had made me jump sometimes well after midnight in the weeks leading up to today. It seems people have got it out of their system for another year. The wildlife can come out of hiding again.
Denni