We’re heading across country to a friend’s house for a Fireworks Night party. We have a large combustible package stashed in the boot.
It’s always a crash bang wallop of a night, with a display that puts most organised events to shame. Everyone who comes is instructed to bring one big firework, which all feature in a thunderous finalé, accompanied by shouts of: “That’s mine!” “No, that’s MINE!”
Our firework is called Alien War. This is a cool name, whether you’re four, fourteen, or forty.
The war nomenclature is apt, as our plans, as usual, are military in nature:
- We’ve just had our hot dinner at lunchtime (a change to the normal drill that has been properly negotiated with our routine-loving daughter).
- We’re packing no-sugar sweets and a couple of low calorie snacks (factored into today’s army rations).
- My daughter will be having hot dogs tonight (I know the make, the calories, and how many she can have). This has been sold as a “cold tea” although there has been much discussion as to how it is actually a “cold and hot tea”, which I fear will repeated ad infinitum on the way there. And back.
- I’ll also be taking a low fat pudding and fruit.
- She’ll be eating later than usual, but understands this, and although she’ll be hungry she really wants to eat at the same time as my friends’ kids, so I’m confident she’ll hold out.
- Appropriate clothing is vital. My girl’s odd circulation means her hands and feet get like blocks of ice, so we’ll be thermalling up with plenty of layers. The kitbag contains a very warm hat, scarf, and gloves.
The preparations are complete. Now I just have to work out how to tether my boy so he doesn’t hop on the back of a rocket and head skywards.