You may have noticed from the title that I labelled fireworks as 'my guilty pleasure' and indeed they are. A born and bred country girl I find myself, every November (and these days beyond), torn between gasping and clapping and worrying about the impact that the noise and flashing is having on pets, wildlife and lifestock. We have a dairy farm just metres from our house and friends in a neighbouring village who are also in the same industry and I know they face the onset of Autumn with concern about their stock and the potential losses that may arise as a result of other people's enthusiasm for fireworks.
More and more often these days any celebration is marked with a box in the back garden and we quite often find the spent remains scattered across our garden or even on the roof of our car. Far worse of course are the popluar chinese lanterns which are responsible for numerous lifeboat launches and wildlife deaths as birds and animals become entangled in the wire remains. I don't think I am alone in wishing they were banned completely.
But back to the fireworks. I would be lying if I didn't say that I loved them. The riot of colour and noise, the expectant lull and heart stopping explosion of sound, the benchmark of the best new year ever, it all makes my spirit soar. However, there is a time and a place for such exuberant celebration and until I can work out exactly when and where that is, fireworks will remain to be, for me, a guilty pleasure.