Dialogue: May the Fawkes be with you ...

I've so enjoyed the leadup to Guy Fawkes this year. Blazing rockets have already been filling the sky. I've spotted bonfire sites in a number of neighbouring gardens and have even seen a few children walking home from school with effigies no doubt destined for flames.

It's amazing how much effort people will put into a project that's only going to go up in smoke.

But the best thing about Guy Fawkes this year, aside from the wonderful range of explosives available to anyone over 14 years of age, is that my uncharacteristic enthusiasm for it all must mean I'm finally cured of my gunpowder phobia.

I know that some people are scared of heights, others of rats, some of enclosed spaces and others of the great outdoors, but I've only had one major fear in my life and it all began many years ago, one Guy Fawkes night, when I was about 5 years old ...

We were all out in the backyard - the men doing the dangerous stuff, the women drinking gin - while we kids were running around in gumboots setting off Double Happys in metal rubbish bins and letting the cat out of the laundry so it wouldn't miss the fun.

The bonfire was blazing and Dad was down to the last three skyrockets. They were the biggest, the best and also very cheap that year, the reason for which we would only find out later.

So there we all were, back in the good old days, when Dad set the match to the wick of the third-to-last skyrocket.

Instead of heading up, as rockets should, it went sideways, scudding through the tomato plants, setting that whole part of the vegetable garden alight - red, green and golden fireballs bursting out of the foliage.

It was very impressive, not to mention unexpected.

The women rustled appreciatively in their kaftans and all the children thought it was great.

Mum might have been a bit annoyed about the tomatoes but, what the heck, there was still plenty of time to get another lot of seedlings in the ground.

Undaunted by the carnage to the Super Toms, Dad struck another match; the next rocket was lit. The wick fizzled its way upward while we all waited with bated breath.

I was desperate to run over and see if it was going, but some grown-up had a clamp-like hand on my shoulder, keeping me from harm, knowing I was a liability when it came to incendiary devices.

Then, bam! We had lift-off - except that the rocket was off doing circles round the garden.

It found the cat, which been hiding over by the clothes-line, narrowly missed someone's car and then it headed towards me.

It went straight between my legs - an inch or two higher and I would have been toast. Happily, though, it took me for a tunnel, leaving evidence of its gunpowder path either side of my plump 5-year-old thighs.

I don't recall what happened to the third rocket because the next thing I remember is lying on the floor of the kitchen. Luckily, Dad was more than just a pyromaniac, he was also a doctor, which meant I was well enough to go to school the next morning.

A day off school couldn't match the kudos that came from fresh wounds. There was no way I was going to miss out on an opportunity to tell a story of courage under fire.

On the way to school I hoped like hell that nobody had lost an eye or anything that might steal my thunder.

Show and Tell was never going to be this good again.

Despite my being a hero for a day and having some great burns that left scars (you can still see them if you look closely), it did put me off fireworks for a very long time.

Since then I've only waved the odd sparkler, and only if I've been wearing safety goggles.

Since then I've always been the killjoy at Guy Fawkes, the one imploring people engaged in skyrocket duels not to be so stupid.

But not this year. I'm still going to be careful, of course, because I don't want people to get burned or start any bushfires like the ones in Northcote on Thursday.

But I am going to be out there - putting matches to crackers and laying to rest the ghost of my fears from Fawkes past.