Last week, despite public condemnation, a small group of us celebrated Guy Fawkes in a backyard. Who knows, it could be the last opportunity, so ... oh, to heck with it, why not?
Down to The Warehouse I went, to check out the pyrotechnic goodies on offer. Wowee, there was a whole aisle of assorted fireworks guarded by three staff members, with fire extinguishers on standby - just in case. "No big stuff [yeah, right]," I told the obliging staff. "Just a few fizzing splashes of colour will do the trick, thanks".
Ten minutes later, I skipped out the door with a couple of tightly sealed boxes labelled "Show Time Family Assortment", plus a couple of extra packets of sparklers for good measure.
Opening the Pandora's Box in my basement revealed the fireworks were nothing like those of yesteryear. No Roman Candles emitting a soft golden glow, no Mount Vesuvius that erupted in a metre-high whoosh of white light for 10 seconds. None of that tame stuff at all.
"Gosh, these are BIG" was my first reaction on opening the lid. With imposing names such as Total Storm, Grand Slammer, Mars Attack and Fury, I could see this was not going to be night for wusses. Plenty of bang for our buck. But, as it turned out, the entertainment highlight on the afternoon of Guy Fawkes Night for many was the free deluge of rain and hail.