Catherines Wheel

6th November2004

Talk about avoidance of writing, I think I have become very lazy over
the last few months and would rather story tell. Putting pen to paper,
or finger to keyboard appears to be inordinately uninteresting to me,
but I would imagine that is because I have not applied myself with any
tenacity or commitment.

Stories are for telling, no matter what the medium and I have been
blessed with the ability to not only tell, but to be able to write, so
here goes;

One night after 5th November and it would seem that the fireworks last
night were tame to say the least.

I have a memory of firework night; I would chance a guess that this
would have been 1963.
My parents, no, I mean my mother, bought a large box of fireworks. My
father was not around much in those days, he spent an inordinate of
time either in the local psychiatric hospital or trying experiments
with drugs at different localities in London. My brother, sister and I
were warned that under no circumstances were we to open the box, (which
seemed huge then) which contained a variety of different fireworks. The
box was put into the front room and we were warned of the consequences
of opening the box, which were that we would not be going to see them
set off.

My brother, sister and I looked at the box for a while, "ohhing" and
"ahhing" at the pictures on the side and passing the box between us
with hushed whispers about Roman Candles, rockets and Catherine wheels.
We argued about who was going to be allowed to hold the sparklers and
who was to be allotted the task of putting the rockets in the milk
bottles.

At some point it was decided that there would be absolutely no harm in
opening the box and seeing how big each firework was and getting
familiar with the look and size of them. As well as this we could
ensure that the right fireworks were in the box.

In the days of yore boxes of fireworks also contained a length of wick,
this was lit and kept alight throughout the firework display, the idea,
I suppose being that one was not worried about matches and their going
out.

You can guess what we found in the box, one of these tapers. So of
course we had to check that this worked all right. It seemed too, and
we felt assured that the evening was to be a success.

At this juncture, my mother, goodness knows where she had been,
appeared to be searching for us and started to call out our names.
Panic ensued and we rushed to put out the taper and put all the
fireworks back in the box. Hastily we closed the lid to be standing in
a pose of studied innocence as she opened the lounge door.
"You have not been touching the fireworks have you" She asked,
"No" was the chorused answer as the first firework went off behind
us.
"Not us" was the cry as a Catherine wheel spun around the room.

We turned to see and hear a banger spurting its way towards us; we
rushed to the door and exited the room. In stunned amazement we each
took a chance to pop a head around the door, watching a firework
display second to none. The fireworks raced around the lounge, striking
the ceiling, singeing the carpet and burning the furniture. We ended up
in the front garden watching the demonstration from a position of some
safety. The neighbours called out the fire engine, by the time it
arrived the display was finished, the damage done, the lounge well and
truly out of commission for a while and we three children were
shamefaced and silent. My mother was strangled with her rage,
disappointment and shock.

My mother was able to claim on house insurance and the carpet and
furniture was replaced or repaired, but I do not think the experience
ever left any of us as children. We were so unaware of the power of
fireworks or the damage that they could do if all let off together and
from then on "Guy Fawkes Night" was a definite no-no in our house.