I must say that none of this transcontinental dialogue, however historically accurate, was going through my mind at 8:51pm on the night of Wenesday the 5th of November. Nor was I thinking about Mr Fawke’s anarchistic aspirations of the early 17th century as I drove past endless front yards that teamed with young families, teenagers and the elderly gingerly lighting fuses that trailed out of buckets full of pointy coloured rockets. As great showers of sparks lit up the night on either side like great computer animated footsteps my singular concern was getting to the local supermarket before they locked the doors on our pyrotechnic adventures for another 360 days. That’s right, New Zealand’s charm does extend beyond dramatic scenery and their willingness to put soft cheeses in meat pies, for five days a year anyone with a fiver and a less than keen affection for all of their fingers is free to strike terror into the hearts of neighbourhood dogs in the name of disestablishmentarianism.
Landing the Honda in the New World carpark at 8:58pm I burst through the automatic doors to see the assistant manager dismantling the temporary fireworks display. Trying hard to mask my desperation I casually enquired about the possibility of purchasing the goods that go bang. He blankly directed me to a box of Mad Lion fireworks (pictured). The severe looking king of the jungle staring up at me from the passenger seat only served to heighten my excitement and sense of danger as I drove my bounty home. Pausing only to read 
the very obvious warning labels (Caution: This product may emit showers of sparks) and assure those concerned for our safety that we had absolutely no idea what we were doing but were sure these things weren’t dangerous, we joined our fellow revellers on the beach. Needless to say that in the half hour that followed much fun was had and many a cheeky grin was exchanged in the flashing lights as, ankle deep in the sand, we lapped up the best NZ$39.95 we’ve ever spent.
