I have always loved 5^th November; the coldness of the night, the smell of gunpowder in the air, toffee apples, the roar of the fire and the fireworks, but of course, as one gets older, things change. It now seems like this annual event has degraded into two months of ducking fireworks in the local park, or as happened in St Pauls one-year, firework battles in the street. The shit scared out of the cat and a ringing in the ears for weeks. Call me cynical maybe.

This all got me thinking about a certain bonfire night when I were a wee boy: As any man will tell you, we all love fire and we’ve very proud of our fire starting skills, be it a BBQ, bonfire or the occasional, unfortunate shed fire. My father is no exception to that rule. I was 8 years old; the night was cold and the air thick with the smell of gunpowder. The fire was built and the Guy sat proudly atop the pile of logs, waiting to be lit. The aforementioned cold night was also a wet one and as my father struggled with the damp logs and subsequent damage to his male pride, he remembered the petrol canister in the garage. Eureka! There is nothing a soggy pile of logs can do to stop a man with a can of petrol and two young sons to impress. Except, that is, singe his hair and eyebrows with the subsequent explosion. And as if this wasn’t bad enough, afterwards my brother and I had to watch from the safety of the house as father extinguished the overhanging apple trees and the neighbour’s shed!

Nowadays we annually trawl up Whiteladies’ for a few loud bangs and a cold hot dog on the Downs. Dad phoned the other day to invite us and the kids round for a family, DIY bonfire, so if you hear the fire engines, spare a thought for poor old me.

Simon Mills