I remember walking up the hill in search of sticks for bonfire night, time and time before the day, lugging great branches sweeping down the road.
And then the night, that night of nights, our little gang would saunter off from fire to fire, and fifty bangers bulging cracking in the sparkle-showering dark.
We thrilled and muddy booted watched the rubber things ignite and melt, and bubble into flames; the tyres the wood and mattresses, the clothes and last of all the slumping hunchbacked guy.
When all our pockets emptied we used to sit around and chew our bonfire toffee, spit and cough its black firejuice into the burning shower of heat.
And wander homeward caked in everthing, under the moon, throw the last banger at a most courageous cat . . . . . .to lie and wonder on the edge of sleep and smell the smoke of all the bonfires in my room, and see again the smouldering rammel wafting red with every breeze.
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