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Bonfire night used to be my favorite day of the year.

I mean, awesome history aside, was not the love about a national holiday that centered

around a bloke getting burned alive as punishment for a failed bombing.

There was something about the whole Toasty Bonfires and spectacularly colorful firework displays

thing that just captured a kind of youthful excitement in me.

Me and my mates would wrap up warm, get a few hot dogs and burgers going on the grill,

smoke up to make the fireworks display extra colorful with, get what I mean, then stand

around a bonfire getting Toasty, while down in cans of logger to get a different kind

of Toasty feeling going.

But a few years back, something hideously unexpected happened that left the time around November

5th filled with bad memories and nightmares, something that I don't think I'll ever really

get over, no matter how hard I try, because honestly it's mostly my fault.

So it's the morning of the 5th of November 2016, and it's absolutely pouring down.

What we normally do if the weather looked terrible was nip down to the field we'd usually

build our bonfire on and pile up some old deadwood and whatnot then whack a tarp over them.

That way we'd have firewood to stack to build a bonfire and the night wouldn't be a washout.

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