I am feeling like a pupa, all wrapped up in blankets inside a sleeping bag, a thick furry hat and all to watch the fireworks. At ninety, my granddaughter Lucy is taking no chances with me. It’s years since I last saw a display, but feeling the raw air around me fills me with joy. Living in a home after my husband passed away, means I never get out in the chilly weather,

I’m sitting above the playing fields in a lay-by and the fun is about to start.

My word what a show – loads of flash-bangs, crackling, starbursts, so different from anything I’ve seen before. Lucy tells me they are not called fireworks now but pyrotechnics, whatever they are.