Cold Hearted Traditions

My Dad press-ganged me into going to a fireworks display in Penkridge. He was quite insistent as he is a big kid at heart. I was quite reticent, as I am an old man at heart. But sadly I was not as reticent as he was insistent. Which means I am not as old as he is childish. So I win. I think.

It seemed a bit sad for a single 31 year old man to spend his Saturday night being taken to a fireworks display with his Dad. But he promised there was a bar so at least I’d be able to drink myself into alcohol induced fug, to temporarily mask the despair of my dismal existence. So with no other real plans with which to counter his proposed ideas, I found myself donning my coat to brave the freezing conditions of a particularly uncompromising November evening.

Turned out the display would be very popular indeed. There was a long traffic queue up the road, just to get into the car park. On the face of it, such disruption would appear as poor organisation, but I suspect it was actually very cleverly premeditated. A three-point-turn would be impossible even if I’d wanted. Meaning we were trapped in our car, waiting for the inevitable entrance fee collectors. It wasn’t long before a young lady approached with a bucket. I wound the window down.

“That’s £8 please” she said. I scrambled about in my pocket. “Could you pay mine for me, I’ve got no change?” asked my Dad. Well what could I say? He was my Dad, who had co-created me, kept me in food, clothes and shelter for the formative years of my life. It should be nothing short of an honour to make such a paltry repayment for man who had made so many sacrifices through the years on my behalf.

“Yes that’s £8 each then please. It’s for a Children’s charity” she said. As I dropped the money in her bucket, I gave her a kindly smile. But inside I was secretly fuming. Sixteen quid for a few blood-curdling bangs abound the night sky? I used to get them for free when I lived in Penn Fields. Our carriage had been drawn to a halt and now I was being robbed! Apparently it seemed the bloodline of Dick Turpin was alive and well, and living in Penkridge. I don’t care if this was for charity. If anything, that just made it seem manipulative. I don’t even like children for Christ’s sake! And don’t come with all that “Maybe so, but childhood is an integral formative step to becoming an adult” or all that “You were a child once, you know” bollocks. That holds no water with me. It’s precisely that little sod’s fault I’ve turned out the way I am. Consequently I have nothing but resentment for the young.

The fireworks could best have been described as brief. Thankfully since you couldn’t get within 200 feet of the bonfire itself, the cold weather soon deterred my Dad from wanting a lengthy stay. Presumably this slightly over zealous fencing arrangement was for reasons of public safety. Quite ironic considering the possible onset of hypothermia that would threaten my Dad. It appears that age catches up with us all eventually.

Thank God for that.