28th October - Fireworks Party

My current routine is to rise at 5:30 AM and write about the previous day, a necessary discipline for the would-be writer who is busy during the day and mentally sluggish in the evening. I mention this because as I wrote this morning, long before it was light, a queen wasp appeared and began buzzing around the gradually brightening bulb. Though not remarkable in itself, (save for its angry contempt for three hard strikes with ' Singing Aloud-100 songs for unison voices) it was yet another reminder that winter is truly on its way. The nests will break up fast now the queens have flown and the redundant workers will gorge on rotting fruit until the first heavy frosts take them.

For my sins, (which must be considerable on today's evidence) I spent the whole day lopping an overgrown hedge for a friend and neighbour. It was, in simple terms, a pig of a job. Hawthorne is a formidable adversary at ground level, but tackled from the summit of my rickety steps the woven branches and gouging spines had me sweating and swearing. Under casual observation from the neighbouring builders, I managed the whole 70 yard stretch, but left behind me a daunting ridge of brash along the whole length - a job for Sunday. In the bath, full of wood chip from my long and wholly impractical hair, I marvelled at my fore arms, scored with a cobweb of angry scratches from wrist to elbow and thought with anticipation about the approaching hedge laying season.

Every year we have the good fortune to be invited to a large bonfire and fireworks party just down the lane. The event, I suppose has become part of our burgeoning family tradition and this evening we made the annual pilgrimage on foot with our newest member. It was mild and still and as usual the halogen floodlights could be seen from afar, blurred this evening by a slight mist. On arrival my workmen's appetite was immediately stirred by the food preparations. A large pig striped with golden crackling turned slowly over oak logs whilst alongside plump, new season pheasants cooked slowly on a barbecue. With my mind firmly focused on dinner I was almost startled by S appearing out of the darkness. With two of his boys off running wild with the mob of other children, he and his father settled in with us for an evening of joking and gossip over plastic cups of beer. The food did not disappoint once the interminable queue finally subsided and as if to mark the momentous moment the first exploding mortars stunned the mumbling crowd to silence as we were handed our baps. Forget a small amateur display.  The hosts put on some of the larger shows in the south-east and this evening we were treated to the works. Choreographed explosion after explosion filled the smoke laden sky with twirling spirals of pink, shimmering plumes of gold and starbursts of green and blue. As the fireworks faded, the bonfire, a 20 foot heap of brash and pallets, was kindled and within seconds an immense tongue of flame was sending dusky sparks high into the night. G was unmoved by the whole event and was more interested in pulling up grass than he had been in the display. Still his good humour ensured an enjoyable evening and we wheeled him back, his head lolling with contented sleep.