Firework

In 1976, I went to Kingsthorpe Grove Junior School in Northampton.  I didn't like the school at all.  I was probably quite a quiet child, I don't think  I knew many of the other children there, it was in a very old, dark building, and some of the teachers were very scary.  The deputy head teacher was an old gaunt looking man, who preached about fire and brimstone, and had an obsession with leprosy.  In assembly, he would always tells us gory tales of lepers losing arms and legs, and dying in the streets.  At the age of 7, I was convinced that I would be next.    

I found out that the disease could be spread by using the same cutlery as someone with leprosy, and so I started refusing to eat in the school canteen.  I think my Mum contacted the school to discuss how this man was putting the fear of god into me, but still the stories continued.  It was agreed eventually that during assemblies, I would sit at the end of a row, nearest to the doors, and if I could sense a leprosy story, my teacher would discreetly open the hall door and I could nip out and go and sit in the classroom.  This worked for a little time, but then one dreadful day, I got caught up in the middle of the line and couldn't find my way to the end in time before we all had to sit down.  Then of course, he started talking about noses dropping off, open weeping sores and  ulcerated skin.  I tried to crawl mouse-like, to the end of the line so I could escape, but he spotted me from the stage, and bellowed at me to go back to my place and to see him after.  He was like Skeletor and I was terrified. After that, I came up with my own alternative strategy for dealing with scary tales, which was to stick my fingers in my ears  and hum quietly, but loudly enough to block out his words.  Heaven knows what I must have looked like, or what the children around me must have thought, but it worked for me.  

The next obstacle to be overcome first appeared towards the end of October in that same year.  I had a friend called Andrea who lived near me, and she would often come to call for me and we would walk to school together.  It was probably a mile from my house to the school, and I worried about being late, so I would often leave before she arrived (her approach to time keeping being less obsessive than mine).  I think she probably got fed up with me not waiting, so the arrangement didn't last for long, and I walked on my own. This was something of a relief to me, as even when she did come on time, she would always then spend about ten minutes choosing sweets in the newsagents on the way, and we always had to run to get to school on time.  I often walked home on my too, as most of the kids lived close to the school and the odd few who lived near me were in different classes.    Walking unaccompanied was not new to me, I had walked to and from infant school too, although I was always worried that I was going to get kidnapped. Or savaged by the stray dogs that roamed the streets, or run over as I crossed the busy main roads.  It was a jungle out there!

But then my teacher started with the firework stories.  I can still remember some of them.  The ones where innocent victims lost body parts, or eyebrows, or were blinded, and it was always as a result of naughty boys throwing fireworks at them.  I had not really come across naughty boys before, but was almost as worried by them as I was by the lepers.  And because the stories had come unexpectedly, I had not been able to swerve them with my fingers in the ears technique.  So they were in my head, and with me as I walked home every day.  I became hyper vigilant, particularly in the vicinity of the newsagents shop, as that was where the naughty boys would probably go to buy their fireworks.  I tried to avoid going to school - feeling too ill most mornings, until my Mum must have cottoned on, and I was sent off to school, even if my legs were hanging off.  I can't really remember a time since then when I wasn't worried by fireworks.  The teacher could have just told me not to go near them, and that would have been enough for me.  And then scared the ones who needed scaring, away from me and the other sensitive little souls.  Scarred for life!   Once bonfire night was over, I forgot all about the dangers of naughty boys, and went back to the kidnappings.  Until the next year!

Fast forward several years, married to a fireman who was frequently called out to deal with firework and bonfire related incidents.  This has done nothing to soothe my unease about fireworks.  But I have tried hard not to pass on my anxiety to my kids.  Sadly it seems it might be genetic as L  is also not keen to go to watch a fireworks display.  We planned to go to one on Saturday night, but she was adamant she didn't want to go.  

My only regret is that this year I wasn't able to use my best firework related gag.   Amongst all the oohs and aahs, I always like to exclaim "Ooh I love a golden shower! Everyone's favourite firework!"  I think I have probably stolen that from my double entendre loving big sister, but I am now passing it on to you all, as a gift.  Use it wisely!