Fireworks

One of my earliest non-dates with Nigel, back in the days when we were just good friends, was to attend a firework display together.  It was fun.  A year and a half later, Nigel and I started going out together around fireworks night (1983).  

We never missed a fireworks night.

Then we had babies.  

People said they would be terrified by the loud explosions and bright flashes.  

But we tried it.  

The twins in their backpacks and Pascoe caught safely by a mittened hand, they loved it, eyes open like saucers.

“Ooooh.”

“Aaaaaah.”

We used to go to the magnificent display at Saltwell Park in Gateshead, then, when we moved to the South East, to Verulamium Park. 

Then came the teen-age years.  

We had to find pyromaniac grown-up friends to go with as our children wanted to go with their mates.  Twice in the pitch black melee of thousands of people we found ourselves standing right next to an outraged Perran with his pals looking shifty.

Pascoe would still sometimes humour us and come with us, and we would hear through the (to us) impenetrable blackness, other youngsters calling “Hello Pascoe”.

Last night, he was back from Edinburgh and came with us again.  Dan travelled up from London and joined us too.

“Ooooooh.”

“Aaaaaaaah.”