Guy Fawkes: Scourge of parents
I remember my first November 5th bonfire. It was somewhere near Stamford Brook and it was HUGE. It made me wish I had a bag of marshmallows and a very long stick.
We don’t have Guy Fawkes’ Night in America – mainly because it was London that he tried to burn down and thus off of the American radar. In some ways, it’s the Anglo-equivalent of the 4th of July with loads of parties and firework displays lighting up the night.
And enough noise to wake the dead. Or a sleeping baby.
Thankfully, I was out last night with some of my NCT mates. If I weren’t, I would have been at home with James, cursing all of our neighbours for their inconsiderate noise making and fun mongering. Every burst made the baby monitor see red. And the cats…well, they were buried so far under the sofa that we’d need a flagpole to root them out.
Of course, I am conveniently going to forget a Guy Fawkes’ Night about five years ago, in which we had a whole bunch of friends over and set off fireworks for hours. Not only that, we also decided it would be a nifty idea to give each display its own soundtrack, so we downloaded loads of big orchestral songs off iTunes, like the theme from Star Wars, and enjoyed the show. I have no doubt that every parent on our block was using our name after a couple of choice other words. All I can do is apologise now from the bottom of my heart. I get it now. This year, we’re getting our payback.