I’m a wuss about fireworks.
Yeah, they’re pretty, and can look amazing lighting up the sky in a myriad of sparkles and colours, but… *whispers* I don’t like them.
When I lived in the U.K., Bonfire Night a.k.a. Guy Fawkes Night, a.k.a. 5th November, was a big deal. Every grocery store would start selling fireworks weeks before, everything from sparklers to giant-ass rockets. My husband loves ’em. He’d seek out the biggest rockets, the most extravagant roman candles, and the noisiest creations around.
We had plenty of local firework displays, some of which could be seen from our bedroom windows, and so he would save some of the fireworks for New Years Eve. I’ve lost count of the number of years I’ve huddled outside in the freezing cold, while he sets off one cracker after another.
Why don’t I like them? I learned they can be dangerous.
Picture the scene…
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