In woollen scarfs and bobble hats, with hot cocoa and no rules at all, Guy Fawkes night was a chance to see the fire of the hearth writ large in the outdoor sky, so temporary and yet eternal all the same.
Guy Fawkes night was all about the fire. It was all about letting that natural glee out of its box. It could have been hundreds of years ago and we'd have all felt the exact same emotions. There's a freedom in those moments, a chance to give the higher brain a rest and let the primitive self dance.
I felt sorry for that poor ol' guy, built only so we could set him alight. We made him jolly, a sort of scarecrow-snowman. One moment he was ordinary, old clothing stuffed with straw, then he was the brightest thing in that cold night, a light to outshine the stars in that his brief moment of fame - yet immortalised in my memories.
Me and Ed would be making the guy while Fiona chased any hedgehogs from our mountain of wood and sticks. That was the start of our Guy Fawkes Night; how we dreamed of that bonfire! We'd see the sparks in our dreams, feel the warmth of the glow long before sunrise. Those were happy days, or maybe that's the magic of time giving my memories a nostalgic sepia hue.
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