As is traditional, last night we celebrated the failure of a terrorist plot 400 years ago by blowing up a whole pile of stuff in the back garden. Because there’s nothing quite like a really, really, loud rocket for encapsulating 17th century Catholic disenfranchisement.

The standard of our fireworks this year was generally pretty good, but the rubbish ones were given an extra edge by the prospect that something could go horribly wrong at any moment. Perhaps this was connected to the small fire at the back of the garden started by an errant projectile early in the evening. (Which reminds me, I must go and inspect our next door neighbour’s vegetable patch at some point at the weekend. Oh, and our other neighbour’s greenhouse, the recipient of one firework that had fallen due to the force of its first couple of firings, sending the last one horizontally out to the side of the garden.)

I think it was Chris who pointed out at one point that none of us were actually looking at the explosions–instead we were all watching the wobbling tube from which the firework was actually firing itself, thus gaining those precious few extra seconds we’d need to dive inside the house if it turned out to be heading straight for us.

Same time next year then? Absolutely.