Fireworked

I had a good post planned for tonight, but someone appears to have chewed through my scanner cable so my plans have quite literally gone up in smoke.

I’ve come to the rather hasty conclusion that fireworks should be banned. This would prevent them from falling into the hands of juvenile delinquents and most worryingly of all, suburban fathers. These men subsequently turn peaceful neighbourhoods into extremely dangerous areas, often resembling night fall in downtown Basra.

I was sitting peacefully in the darkened conservatory last night, barely half way through chapter one of Jane Eyre, when the world outside the window appeared to end in a blaze of green light emitted by a firework, semi-vertically launched over the hedge. My furry companion, previously grinding his teeth in contentment, leapt to his feet and promptly situated himself behind the sofa, stamping his abnormally large back paws frantically. Feeling slightly unnerved as the fireworks continued to zoom erratically past my window; I was more than once tempted to join him.

Seemingly normal men take leave of their senses come the beginning of November and retreat to their gardens with excitable families, before proceeding to wave around explosives as if they were a twirling baton. Fireworks are just as dangerous in the wrong hands as any other explosive material - its gunpowder not a sherbet dip. How hard is that to comprehend? Does little Bobby have to lose an eye or Grandma suffer second degree burns before anyone will realise that fireworks belong in the hands of the professional, certified pyromaniacs. Those who skilfully put on the end of festival fireworks displays and other such supervised events, not Mr Jones from number six who just accidentally hospitalised three members of his family.