Popping and Banging

It's Firework Friday. You can tell this from where I am sitting by the sirens echoing off into the distance and the occasional squeal and bang as a rocket takes off. There are more people than usual padding up and down the street. Arms pressed straight down their sides, hands as far into their pockets as they will go, heads bent forward with hoods flopping over their brows. It's also raining. It reminds me I have a gutter that needs sorting out as there is a steady splash of water onto my front doorstep, about the speed of tea coming out of the pot. The splashes creep in under the badly fitting front door and make the carpet there a bit soggy.

I don't mind not going out fireworking, I have someone coming for dinner, and I have enjoyed pottering in the kitchen, rustling up something that is smelling gorgeous in the oven. While the meat was browning I enjoyed finding tracks on CDs I haven't heard for ages, playing them very loudly on the huge speakers and dancing around, imagining I was the most beautiful, sensual creature to walk the earth. It involved a lot of waving my arms around, like 'Music and Movement' in primary school, only better - much better. Every so often the image was spoiled by catching a glimpse of someone quite odd in the reflection from the window, or the pictures on the wall. I'm not sure who they were, but they really couldn't dance.

Anyway, Vanessa Mae did the best fireworks of the year - you can't beat the electrified excitement of Vivaldi with the sky metamorphosing into a maelstrom of colour. I don't need to see a puny rocket wobble out of a milkbottle and worry about whether it's going to take my eyes out. My idea of fun doesn't include a trip to A&E to wait on a trolley for several hours.