When it comes to 5 November, Guy Fawkes has a lot to answer for. And no, I’m not talking about his plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament; I’m talking about sentencing every pet owner in the country to a night of hell. If there’s one word that will strike fear into every pet and their owner, it’s ‘fireworks’.
Don’t get me wrong. I love fireworks as much as the next person. But where you see exploding rockets and cascading Catherine wheels, we pet owners see terrified animals trying to hide down the back of the sofa.
Or, in Arthur’s case, squashed underneath my desk, covered in a beach towel.
Edward is out with ‘some friends’ again, which I think is code for Date Three. Though I didn’t ask. When he texted to ask me if I’d be home to look after Arthur, I couldn’t exactly respond, ‘Yes, are you going to have sex?’ To be honest, I’m not sure if I want to know.
So instead I turn off all the lights and watch the fireworks from the upstairs window. Gazing across the rooftops and beyond at the glittering bursts of colour and shooting stars that leap and swirl across the inky sky, I feel like I’m witnessing a ballet. It really is magical. One of those things you want to share with someone.
Oh, FFS.
I grab my phone. At least I can share it on Instagram.
I spend the next few minutes taking lots of blurry photos of fireworks, before giving up and putting down my phone and just watching.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, alone in the darkness. But it feels like a really long time.
I’m grateful for: