This was a weekend of revelation and fascination.
We had a party, it was a firework/halloween/housewarming affair. This had come about following the saga of the wardrobe. My manfriend and I now live in the country. Ten years of solitary urban living has been felled by our decision to live over the brush in rural Warrington. I would be lying if I pretended that this has been a seamless transition. We are both apposite beings (opposites attract? nah), with lots and lots of stuff. My stuff of course is gorgeous, tasteful and elegant. Manfriend’s is tatty, tacky and naff. Hence the idea for the bonfire.
I know what you’re thinking. Seems a bit harsh? Not quite as harsh as my buddy Helen who got married in May. On the day of the ‘moving in together’, she ordered an industrial sized skip, and Bermuda policeman like, directed traffic from his removal van directly into the pit of the skip, her betrothed’s belongings never made it inside. I thought a bonfire a little more romantic. The sacrificial burning at the stake, akin to the ‘boyfriend bonfire’ on Friends (never watch it – heard about it…), ashes to ashes.
It was the noise which first alarmed me. Said wardrobe being butchered with spade, then when that didn’t work, chain saw. It was as if he had taken his favourite horse outside to shoot it. I swear there was a tear in his eye as the flames began to lick around that 1960’s formica. He attempted to get the pea running back in his direction with a terrifying display of pyrotechnic lunacy. Fireworks from China leapt in any direction, apart from skywards, as the testosterone erupted.
Not just in manfriend though. All the male guests ran from rocket to banger to Roman candle with lighters and torches, just like in the olden days at the back of the cave. The women in the party retreated from the battleground and sought cover behind trees and garden furniture, incredulous at the bravery and foolhardiness of their mates.
The day after the night before.
The pumpkins have melted with the damp; like the wicked witch of the west, only an ominous sticky puddle remains. Empty wine and beer bottles mark the spot where revellers wrote their name with sparklers and oohed and aahed at £300/7 minutes of What a Whopper fireworks.
Manfriend shouts me. He is hunched over the ashes of our bonfire. It is still alight and smoulders, despite an inch of rain. This thrills him. A self satisfied smirk negates the need for the ‘Ug Ug’ he is internalising. The Cradle of Humankind, one million years on.
BRING BEER – COME NAKED.
Freud – Halloween – a veritable feast of phallic forms and oedipal outings.