Last night we took Eve and Leah to their first ever fireworks and gender difference display. While we girls’ ohhh’d and ahhh’d over the heart shaped pink fireworks and the multicoloured ‘firepops’ as Leah called them, Mr Rush Hour was transfixed by the bonfire. A group of boys, aged somewhere between seven and nine, chanted loudly “Die Guy” and cheered when the flames made his limbs crinkle and fall off one by one. I have to admit to finding this quite disturbing. We live a pretty gender neutral life, Mr Rush Hour knows the value of a good drying day as much as the next housewife, I’m a whizz at unblocking sinks and Leah knows more about trains and cars than most boys, so last night was interesting new territory.
In fact Eve hated the fire and wanted to get as far away from it as possible, which is exactly how I felt about bonfire night as a child. Now I want it to be another precious family ritual, the last one of Autumn before Christmas fever begins. Walking the mile home last night, with Eve and Leah feeling the utter sophistication which comes with staying up past eight when you are four years old, watching fireworks light up the rooftops of Dulwich in pink, orange and green is something I hope they’ll remember until at least next years Bonfire night.