A childhood memory

It is early November, around the time of bonfire night when the anticipation builds u as you hear the odd cackle from the neighbour's garden and rush to the window in excitement. I'm dressed head to toe in winter woolies wrapped up tightly by my mum. We are all stood outside in a small field behind the infant block of my primary school; me, my mum, dad and little brother who sits snuggly in my mum's arms. We only had one field for school events which used to transform itself during our school's sports days and summer fetes. There was always a good turn out, people left their busy lives to revel in the simple pleasure of fireworks and as such there was always a strong sense of community and school spirit, or so it felt like back then. We waited eagerly with our jacket potatoes and hot dogs warming up our insides awaiting those magical bursts in the sky. It was all about the jacket potatoes back then, especially as the fireworks always seemed to start late.

15 years on, I'm standing in another field at Blackheath. The winter chill is ever present and I'm bundled up in my scarf and gloves. The field is larger by a long shot and filled with a throng of people who have trekked from all ends of London. I crane my neck to get a better view and as I do sparks fly and illuminate the sky. The fireworks are no doubt bigger and more expensive than my school's own production but the feeling is just the same. Despite the cold, the crowd ooh and aah in all the right places. Our eyes shine brightly and inside that coldlike wonderment is ignited. There are the ones that glow coming in an array of colours, those that fizzle out into the darkness, ones that seem to take on a life of their own and the ones that are launched into the sky with a piercing cry. It takes me back to 15 years ago when I would crane my neck in awe but with my hands laced firmly over my ears to block out the sound. The only thing missing now is the jacket potatoes.

Fireworks at Blackheath