A friend let me set off a firework. Never having done it before I was eager to set off some fireworks of my own. But without any money…
I lowered my sights to a box of coloured matches. I’d seen bigger kids playing with them and I knew how to flick them. Holding the matchbox in one hand, with a thumb keeping the match on the striking pad, they flicked the match and sent it spinning through the air, alight.
I lowered my sights again when Mam sent me on an errand to Twydall shops, as a plain box of matches was easily attainable and made little impact on Mam’s change.
With Mam’s shopping bag hung on my arm I happily dawdled home, flicking matches all the way.
Goudhurst Road: Flick, fizz! Flick, fizz!
Minster Road... Flick, fizz! Flick, fizz!
Crundale Road… Flick, fizz!
Just a hundred yards from home, near the entrance to the alley that led down to Wingham Close, I flicked another match but instead of spinning away like the rest had done, this one came straight up at my face. Instinctively, I slapped my hand to it. A big mistake, I realised, when I felt the hot sulphur on my eyelid. Play with matches and you get burned. Lesson learned. Argh!
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