Yesterday we had another one of the famous Manchester autumn rainstorms: three years-worth of normal rainfall crammed into three hours. You just don’t go outside. So we stayed in the flat and surfed and read.
In the evening, mainly as a reason to get out, we went to the bonfire night firework display at Platt Fields park. As usual, it was muddy and rainy, but we had a good time. Had a little cone of chips and a toffee apple, and Debra bought some candyfloss (ugh…). The fireworks looked nice against the dark sky (especially the fizzy ones that always make me imagine midges that have somehow been set alight and are frantically flying around trying to put the fire out), but the fire was disappointing – you couldn’t get nearer to it than about a hundred meters, and it was surrounded by two fences and lots of security guards. I like fires (indoors and outdoors), and I like to get up-close so I can feel my skin start to melt. So, while this was nice and safe, it was fairly unauthentic.
As a child, in my memory, bonfire night was a bit different. For a start, we (my sister, my parents, and myself) did it on the 5th – none of this nearest-Saturday-night nonsense. We’d go to my grandparents house with our fireworks, and my cousins would be there with theirs. We’d light them ourselves (always in my memory, though I’m sure our parents did it when we were too young) and we’d have a small bonfire and put our guys on it. Then we’d draw pictures in the air with sparklers, and watch the fireworks coming from other people’s gardens. There always seemed to be huge quantities of burgers and baked potatoes and toffee that my grandmother had made. I’m so glad I had parents and family that were prepared to make the effort to do these things.
I remember those nights as being colder and darker then, back when I was little, and without any rain.