It's Guy Fawke's night and the fire service are probably hoping for rain.
It's Guy Fawke's night and the fire service are probably hoping for rain.
If the fire service gets its wish, the region will tonight be awash with rain.
The men driving big red fire engines aren't alone in their push to veto the explosive soiree that is Guy Fawkes. The SPCA wants it officially deleted from the calendar, as do others in thecommunity who want to expedite the inevitable prohibition on private sales.
In the past decades firecrackers have been dumbed down from veritable dynamite sticks to a complete ban, while skyrockets' former Scud-like magnificence has been replaced with party-popper impotence.
Many are in favour of public fireworks displays only. Better value for money, apparently.
Thing is, these people obviously don't consider the lighting of a fuse as crucial to one's enjoyment. I do. The spark, the hiss, the indeterminate wait, the hint of danger, the delayed detonation and the rush of percussion come only if you're the author of the ensuing kaleidoscope.
Public displays preclude this glee. You're simply watching another pyro's choreography.
Then, inevitably there are those wishing them banished on safety grounds. Such concern takes me back to the early 90s when we university students fired sky rockets at each other from vacuum cleaner hoses. To mitigate any notion of stupidity, we set aside a decent volume of beer in the event of fire and wore sunglasses to protect the eyes from the incoming missiles.
In my lifetime we've gone from said skyrocket-propelled campus warfare to fretting about whether fireworks cause inadvertent emotional trauma to pets. Given the appreciable shift it's difficult to gauge whether we're now a species that looks after itself more - or trusts itself less.
