Sometimes I wish New Zealand had a slightly hotter and drier climate so that fireworks would be banned.
I am so sick of fireworks. For the last week or so there have been various pops and bangs echoing around the ‘hood. Then tonight it was a total fireworks extravaganza, and stuff is still being let off. Last year I remember someone letting off stuff at 5 am.
A few hours ago I looked out the window and saw a guy letting off some little spurty things on the road, only a couple of metres away from where my car was parked. If I hadn’t been in my pajamas I could have gone out and told him to walk to the park at the end of the street. Actually, I should have been a crazy lady and gone out in my pajamas.
In theory fireworks should be exciting and fun, but they always, always get into the hands of kids with ADD and drunken teenagers and stupid stuff happens. Yes, isn’t it just hilarious to shove a lit cracker through the return slot of a video store?
Oh, and then there’s the family fireworks display, complete with the bargain box from The Warehouse. And how difficult it is to maintain any soft of enthusiasm for the third time some little pissy stick that spurts out five golden balls and emits and ear piercing scream.
And what are we celebrating? A guy who tried to blow up the British Houses of Parliament, but was caught before he could light the fuse. So, I guess in a way it’s celebrating the British government. Yay! Go Tony Blair! Woohoo sexed-up dossiers! And let us light a Roman candle for 10 Downing Street!
But I’m not a total fireworks hater. I like the really big displays of pyrotechnics. The huge blasts that make the earth shake and light up the night sky for miles. The kind that makes people come running outdoor to see, that makes everything stop for a while while people just take in the fountains of colour exploding in the dark.