Did everyone enjoy Bonfire Night? Actually, ‘night’ implies that for only one evening the skies were a bit more colourful – and louder – than they usually are. In reality it’s been more like Bonfire Month. THREE weeks now they’ve been going off in anticipation of my bin being nicked. Last year it met its grisly end at the hands of some ungodly klepto-pyros, so here’s hoping that Binifred will make it till after Christmas.

I’ll be honest, I’m not a fireworks fanatic – I spend most of the night calming the pets down. They get so scared and need a cuddle. There’s all that screeching, peeing and crying in between flashes and bangs – I’m sick of having to deal with this from the chap as well as trying to comfort the fur babies.The kids love the entertainment, though. They were begging me to take them to a fireworks display. “Pllleeeaaasseee!” they sang in unison.

“Ah’m not paying two quid a person!” I scoffed. “Go and stand in the back garden and look up, there’s a free display out there!”

I sent them out in the wellies with a toffee apple and waved at them through the window. They were shivering a bit so I shouted: “When you’ve ate them, wave the sticks about and pretend they’re sparklers. You’ll warm up!”

They looked really disappointed at this suggestion so I taped a few bits of tinfoil on the end of their bare toffee apple sticks. Much safer AND re-usable.

Then they came in, complaining they were hungry. “There are kids outside with hotdogs and stuff,” said my eldest.

I never keep hotdogs in the house as they remind me too much of Beaker from The Muppets. But feeling bad for the kids and unable to leave the pets, I was forced to improvise.

“What are those?” my son screamed. “I can’t be seen in public with one of those!” Minus the hotdog sausages and buns, I had been forced to use what few options were available to me – fish fingers and croissants. The three-year-old wolfed down several (I’m so happy she’s too young to understand which bread serves as an ideal accompaniment to fish), but my eldest was having NONE of it.

I started rummaging through the cupboards, flinging tins and packets everywhere. Eventually I struck gold. I reassured the kids that I’d found them another staple of the Bonfire night banquet – soup.

I reassured the kids that I’d made the soup myself and NOBODY would tease them over it (unlike the French fish finger breakfast buns). The soup was allegedly “made from scratch” and my son seemed thrilled.

The kids soon whizzed outside with their flasks full of soup. I watched them play with the other kids (whilst guarding the bins at the same time). They were chatting to the other kids and parents when one neighbour rang the doorbell. Apparently she had tasted the soup and, after my son had told her it was ‘homemade,’ was keen to know the ingredients. Then my three-year-old came back over. “More Cup-a-soup, Mam?” she asked.

Turns out she wasn’t as naïve as I imagined.

My neighbour looked confused and I turned bright red.

“Mam puts fish fingers in car-sonts,” she continued.

Next year I’ll get some fireworks… at least they’ll be distracted from the scran.