I hated fireworks night for I had to beg my father to buy a box of fireworks and he’d come home and say, “do me a favour,” which was weird in itself because I was asking HIM to do ME a favour. We’d walk together in the dark up to the sweet shop and there was always  that one ten shilling box left and we’d return home and wait for another age as he looked for his torch and he’d let them off one at a time which took another age as he never seemed sure which bit to stick in the ground and which bit to light. We’d all stand well back and wait and wait as nothing often happened because the box was probably last year’s or the year before that and because half of them were duds anyway. Even so, you had to wait as you could never be sure, as the firework might suddenly erupt into golden rain and we’d say, oooh and we’s say ahh but you could never be sure as it could also explode in his face just as he was kneeling over it to light another and he’d end up burnt to death.