Honestly, all I heard over last weekend was bang, bang, bang!

Before you ask, no, it wasn’t the sound of me falling down the stairs, inebriated.

It was that time of the year again, when we’re rudely awoken from our peaceful slumber by fireworks.

Yep, it was bonfire night.

Normally I’m not a total killjoy but the incessant noise had turned me from a young-at-heart 30-something into a raging Victor Meldrew.

One of my neighbours even insisted on letting some fireworks off on Monday night – yes, a Monday.

Either he wasn’t fussed about being late for work in the morning or he’d turned his clock way too far back the other week.

As anticipated though, the kids were eager to see a dazzling display of lights that were essentially fuelled by the same thing that powers a gun.

We headed up to my relative’s home so that I could enjoy standing out in the cold clutching the world’s smallest hotdog and some budget prosecco.

Much to my dismay, my seven-year-old removed his coat and started doing what looked like teddy bear rolls in the garden.

He soon started coughing and spluttering but I refused to give him back his coat after such an awful display of gymnastics.

Well, if he’s going to go to the Olympics then he needs to buck his ideas up.

So, I’m standing there in my faux fur coat, absolutely freezing and trying to shake off my shivering child, trying to look on the bright side.

For all my trouble I thought I’d at least get to treat my eyes to some fabulous fireworks.

My uncle let off a rocket and the whole family held their breath as it soared into the night sky. It whizzed up higher and higher, there was silence then the quietest of noises that I can only represent on paper as a ‘pppsssftt’.

I couldn’t even see the flash, if there was one!

“Where did you get them from?!” my aunty, powered by prosecco, snapped at my uncle.

“A fella at work,” he answered, looking totally confused.

Everyone present let out a sigh and some unmentionable words were uttered under hushed breaths.

Thankfully my cousin arrived with some fireworks from Asda that put my poor uncle’s to shame.

“Yeay! Asda!” my son squealed, while informing us that the new fireworks were so amazing that he was on the verge of having a seizure.

It was getting towards 8pm at this point so my inner misery in me decided to head back home, settle into my jimmy jams and watch some tripe on YouTube.

But fireworks were still going off left, right and centre.

Half of the empty stubs and sticks had managed to accumulate in my tiny garden while my neighbour’s 50 acres had remained unscathed.

I sat on the back step, chain smoking my Carlton menthols, as relaxing was clearly off the menu.

The dog was with me, struggling to find a patch of grass among the debris when a rocket exploded directly above us.

It scared me half to death but she couldn’t have cared less.

She looked up and then just carried on.