When I was a kid, my dad would put on his own mini firework display for us every Bonfire Night, writes Ellen Widdup.

It was rubbish. He would buy a job lot of bangers from the supermarket which inevitably popped and fizzed rather miserably on the back lawn.

If we were lucky a Catherine wheel would be thrown into the mix which spun once before falling on the grass for my dad to hop around in a futile attempt to recover the showpiece.

My sister and I would be togged up in our pyjamas, sipping that instant hot chocolate you mix with boiling water, grainy and weak. My brother, the baby of the family, would wail constantly, afraid of the whole spectacle. And the cat would be cowering in a corner somewhere with nerve-induced diarrhoea.

My mum would switch off the kitchen lights so we could stand at the patio doors to watch the three-minute exhibition, making the obligatory ooooo’s and ahhhh’s.

If any fireworks did manage to make it into the sky, we would have to press our faces right up against the window to try and spot the illumination, leaving snotty smears on the glass.

I can remember only one occasion where we were taken to a proper council-run firework event, trussed up in layer upon layer of clothing, a garish anorak and waterproof trousers on top. So thoroughly swaddled we were turned the rough shape of a starfish.

It was exciting and terrifying all at once.

The wonder and the magic combined with the fear instilled by the seriously dark warning videos which ran in the lead up to November 5th.

This was a time when the British Government’s Central Office of Information peppered advertisement breaks during children’s programming with oft-repeated short films designed to advise us on how to negotiate the veritable minefield of deadly obstacles.

Strangers wanted to take us away from our mummies.

Train tracks were not playgrounds. Taking pets on holiday resulted in rabies.

We were given top tips on surviving a nuclear war - the Protect and Survive series which suggested we create a fallout shelter in our house to shield us from the constant shadow of Armageddon.

From Charley the cat to the Green Cross Code Man we were told to play safe or risk certain death from drowning, poisoning, electrocution, child abduction or fire.

Ah yes, thanks to a mini hammer horror style flick, we were taught children who played with fireworks went blind, lost fingers or burnt their faces off.

Perhaps all this explains why my parents – who went all out on other annual celebrations – were so boring about Bonfire Night.

Anyway, on this one occasion we were allowed out to experience it properly, we paid heed.

We wrote our names in the air with sparklers, placing the wires carefully in a bucket of cold water and ate toffee apples while the sky lit up over our heads.

And it was fantastic. Like a smoky, autumnal Christmas.

The following year we were back to the safety of dad’s displays in the garden and shortly after that I reached my teens.

Teenagers of the 1990s didn’t do Guy Fawkes. Partly because they all wore highly flammable shellsuits and partly because they were too busy sulking to find enjoyment in anything they once loved as a child.

Many adults don’t like Bonfire Night either though. Who wants to stand in the freezing cold for two hours with your boots sinking in the mud eating something that vaguely resembles a burger before going home with the smell of smoke in your hair?

It’s an example of literally setting fire to money, isn’t it?

But then you have children of your own. I was terribly excited to relive my one magical Guy Fawkes night by replicating it for my kids when they were old enough.

I think my daughter was six and my son four when we gave them their first taste. Ironically my father was involved in the display.

A community event, he had agreed to set off the fireworks – considering himself a bit of an expert perhaps.

Dozens of families turned out for the show, each bringing a dish of food to share – sausages in baps, cotton candy on sticks, brownies.

We did the obligatory sparkler session, mums and dads hovering round to protect the little people going up in flames, and then settled down to watch the big display.

It was spectacular. I clasped my hands over the ears of my eldest, my husband protecting the hearing of the youngest and they watched in wonder as the sky lit up in red, green and silver.

It was just as magical as I remembered from my own childhood.

After the show the kids were handed toffee apples, standing a respectful distance from the big bonfire while the menfolk poked and prodded at the embers, clearing up and throwing bits of rubbish into the flames.

My dad looked pleased with himself. It was a far cry from the garden exhibitions of my youth.

I smiled across at him, just as a box which had contained the fireworks was hoisted into the flames. Then it all went horribly wrong.

The box happened to contain a few rockets which had been missed in the display. And suddenly a series of explosions happened, sending missiles in all directions.

Parents shielded children, pensioners ran for cover and my dad stood stock still totally aghast.

Nobody was hurt which meant that later we could laugh about it. Out of relief mainly.

We don’t really do public service announcements like we did in the old days.

But if we did, I’m sure my dad would support one that advised everyone to stick with a cruddy Catherine Wheel in the back garden.

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