Tattie, one of my nieces lives in a flat the centre of Edinburgh (postcode EH1) and hates the Festival fireworks set off each night after the Tattoo.

I'm perfectly sure that Catholic Masturbation Sessions take place with the utmost decorum.

I have happy memories of begging our father for an old shirt and trousers, stuffing them with rolled-up newspaper, attaching a home-made mask (complete with a crayonned-on moustache) and wheeling our Guy over to the parade of shops on my sister's old pram. We'd call out, "Penny for the Guy!" and kind folk would give us one penny. With the accumulated money we bought our fireworks.

The Guy was attached to a pole in the middle of the bonfire before it was lit, and we'd cheer like anything when he started to burn, chanting,
          "Remember, remember
          The fifth of November
          Gunpowder, treason and plot.
          I see no reason
          Why gunpowder treason
          Should ever be forgot!".

But these industrial-sized monstrous explosive devices seem a long way from those sedate days.

This morning there are spent rockets on our drive and lawn. At least our little Fiesta car is safe in our garage.

Wonder if the whole thing will be repeated nightly until after the 5th November?