The Fifth of November - Fireworks Night

So, as I'm sure some of you will be aware, tomorrow is in fact the fifth of November, commonly known as Fireworks Night or Guy Fawkes Day. Yet another year has passed since Guy Fawkes and his band of miscreants failed to blow up the British Houses of Parliament.

Seeing as you'll probably read this either on or after the fifth, here I am, tired and slightly uninterested, to tell you a happy Fireworks Day to you. Will any of you be pointlessly shooting combustible projectiles into the air to pollute the night sky with lights and sounds and smoke? I won't. I shall be watching them explode from the safety of somewhere comfortable, working out in my head how I could capture one in a temporal bubble and replace it five minutes in the future in the middle of the Houses of Parliament as a little joke to david Cameron. Mind you, Nick Clegg would probably find it and carry it through to the House of Lords or do something equally clueless, dumb and ridiculous.

I find it mildly amusing that a plot as dire as the Gunpowder Plot has been turned into a celebration. Rather, we celebrate what didn't happen on that day. So if you think about it, every day that the Houses of Parliament don't blow up should be celebrated. But it is not so. If it were, then nobody would pester their peers, youngers, neighbours and family with the well known verse:

Remember, remember the fifth of November.

Wouldn't it be scandalous if if were to be discovered that the plot was foiled in August instead? Imagine if it were true, and poets had moved the date of it forwards a month so that the stupid little rhyme we all know, and wish we didn't know, could exist. If someone had done that, then I would seriously consider abusing my responsibilities as a time traveller to go back and murder whoever did it. Maybe an ancestor of Nick Clegg. (It is my solemn duty to inform you mere mortals that it is not possible to change the past. Once you enter the past, you were always there. History just has a rather roundabout way of doing things, that's all. Does that make sense?)

So, as my contribution to the celebrations of what didn't happen, and the grisly death that followed, I leave you with this.

Remember, remember
The fifth of November
When the Government's place
Nearly burnt to an ember.
But at least good old Guy
Made way for rockets to fly
And gave me an excuse to run next door in the middle of the night with an energy pulse weapon from the year five thousand two hundred and eighty six because they were letting off fireworks at two in the morning and fire at them until they die.

Neighbours, you have been warned. There is a person next door undertaking NaNoWriMo, and he has the power to go back in time and plague you with odd socks.

Confused? I'm not surprised.

And on that bombshell, I leave you with a box of fireworks and the unfortunately pessimistic truth that there is in fact a Murphy's Law of Odd Socks. But I'll save that rant for another time. Until then, I bid thee farewell.