They then spent the morning and part of the afternoon of November 5th digging trenches and strategically placing each firework in place. It was a very serious business.

That night family and friends gathered. The brother in law’s mother churned out pies, peas, parkin and roast chestnuts out of the tiniest kitchen I ever did see.

The husband wrapped up warm and sporting a head-torch together with other men started the firework show. It went go on for half an hour and was absolutely magnificent. They were in their element – though due to running back and forth with their heads down never got to see the fruit of their labour. All they heard were the “Ooooooh’s” and “Ahhhhhh’s” with the odd “F*cking hell I nearly got speared with by a falling rocket stick” thrown in for good measure.

Unfortunately after the third year news got around about the firework display. Uninvited people turned up from far and wide so after that Fireworks at the Farm were canceled. A victim of their own success the days of MASSIVE fireworks are long gone.

Which brings me to Teacher Friend Mother of 3 (TFMo3). She hosts tea and fireworks every year for the children at her house. TFMo3 normally just does the quiet but pretty ones which suits us fine.

Don’t get me wrong I LOVE big fireworks, the bigger the better. But, for the past 2 years my children have been frightened of loud fireworks and I have spent most of my time sitting inside with one or both children covering their ears whilst trying to coax them out from under their duvet. It’s just not worth it.

My concern is that TFMo3 has put my husband in charge of the firework display. I have reiterated that the children will be between the ages of 1 to 6 and most are frightened of BIG BANGS. I fear that ‘man lust’ will take over and we will all be deaf by Friday morning.

He is currently in a firework shop, alone, spending a fortune on fireworks and sparklers and I’m scared.

I wonder if I should send out a warning text message to everyone saying ‘Bring ear defenders’.

The 4 year old is grumbling about having to leave the fun to go home to bed. The grumbling quickly escalates into a rant with tears and she is given a warning that if she continues she’ll lose a bedtime story. Low and behold … she continues.

“One bedtime story gone” I say.

She stops crying and with an air of injustice says “Mummy, if you are not nice to me I won’t be your child anymore” adding a huff on the end for effect.

I have never heard of social services intervention due to bedtime story withdrawal so I confidently deliver the news that we are stuck with each other forever.

Accepting her doom, she points at the 2 year old who, sensing the unrest has taken to his favourite pastime of raspberry blowing “Will he always be my brother?”

“Yes” I reply “We are stuck with him too”.