Tuesday, 1 January 2013


I am used to love Perth fireworks, the heat of a summer's night ending in a cacophony of sound and light as the city treats its inhabitants to the spectacular show that is Australia Day. And yet what I still miss each time I see fireworks now is the feeling from watching my first London fireworks on Guy Fawkes night more than two years ago.

By November London is rapidly cooling down for whatever warmth they had achieved over summer. The air is nippy and the ground chilled, verging on the frozen. And yet standing on Blackheath awaiting the fireworks, something was different. At home the fireworks are launched from the middle of the river (it's the safest place really when so much of the surrounding land is covered in dry grass, twigs, leaves that have a tendency to ignite at the mere thought of it) so seated on the water's edge you're some distance from the fireworks.

What I loved about the fireworks on Blackheath was that you were automatically so close to the action. The fireworks were launched 50 yards away and exploded  directly above you, and as each one slowly died, the ash and residual embers descended all around you. With the explosion in your ears, you actually felt a part of it, as opposed to just a spectator.

This year it felt a little like London. It was misting all evening and combined with a slight breeze I was wrapped up in goosebumps inside the encompassing fold of a shawl. Somehow that feels more like it. 

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