The boy was about ten years old and he was looking forward to Guy Fawks night. In nineteen fifty seven Britain fireworks were only enjoyed once a year, along with a bonfire. Two weeks and a few odd days before fireworks night he accompanied his father to the tiny shop in Horchurch which normally sold toys but at this time of year it stocked an interesting selection of pyrotechnic supplies. They made their choice, which included some large rockets, roman candles, aeroplanes, jumping jacks, bangers and of course some pretty ones which sprayed coloured sparks into the air. The young chappies favourites were bangers, jumping jacks and aeroplanes. The aeroplanes had wings with opposite corners turned up and when lit went spinning into the air. However, before the fifth of November arrived he had dreamed up a fascinating idea for one of the large rockets. Some weeks earlier he had made a pair of wings from balsa wood and newspaper and he even persuaded his dad that attaching them to said rocket would prove interesting.
On the Saturday night nearest to the fifth the fire was lit beneath the Guy and when it was blazing brightly his father commenced lighting the fireworks.

Mum dad and urchin watched their display, and those of many neighbours, and then it was time to launch the “winged rocket.”

The boy slipped the rocket stick into the steel pipe embedded in the lawn. He looked at his father, who grinned, lit the blue touch paper and retired immediately. They both watched from a safe distance. The rocket fizzed and a jet of sparks rushed out, and continued to do so. They waited a short time and then the rocket slowly crept into the air. It rose to the height of three metres, tipped over, performed three, two metre diameter circles and exploded sending coloured sparks all over the garden.
The father looked at the boy and said, “I don’t think we’ll try that again,” and he grinned.

Posted: Tuesday, November 1st, 2016 @ 11:17 pm
Categories: Uncategorized.
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