I am not condoning illegal activities. But some of them are really fun. Like you’re cycling home from work and it’s dark and suddenly - ka-BOOM! - the biggest firework you ever saw outside of Lewes explodes across the Dalston skies and you think, surely that’s not right. And you think, that’s fucking cool. And then another one, one of those screaming ones that takes the top end off your ears for a bit and sends your eyes into spirals. One of those, you know. And then some red and blue showers of sparks above the council flats and church spires, dangerously near. You take a left instead of your usual right, chasing the lights, until you come to the little playground flanked by houses and a railway bridge, and you see a crowd of people gathered on the pavement, while in the playground lights like fireflies are flickering in the dark around the climbing frame. “We thought you were the old bill!” shouts a voice - a reference to your blue-white bike lights flashing gamely against the fire in the sky. You laugh hysterically, and turn the lights off, and a woman’s voice says “come and watch!”, so you lean on your handlebars and smile at everyone and krrrrrrrrrkkkkkkksssshhhh goes the sky. The people of St Jude street are having their fireworks night and you’re suddenly invited. The fireworks are being set off in the tiny park by boys brandishing cans of Stella and lit cigarettes, silhouetted and clumsy, imps in hell. Their mums are watching from the pavement, anxious laughter in their voices as they yell “go on, son!” at their offspring. An apocalytpic magenta fountain roars suddenly from the ground and shoots of spumes of glow into the street as the boys run for cover. We pause, silent in case one of them’s been hurt. But they’re all ok. We breathe relief and start laughing again. The talk turns to market stalls and Christmas and you listen, watching them setting up rockets that oughtn’t - both by law and by regard for human safety - be used outside organised displays. Another run for cover from the boys, as this time a bronze-gold jet of exploding leafy sparks gallivants up beyond the streetlights, pauses, and does a slow-mo raindown of glittering, geometric detritus. The children next to you scream with joy and then pretend they didn’t. A van pulls up and a man leans out and shouts to one of the women. “SANDRA! Haven’t seen you in ages. What’s going on?” Parks the van in the street. Gets out. Watches too. A little traffic jam builds up and good-natured hoots sound among the crackles in the air. We hear some sirens. The man behind you murmurs that the police are on their way. No-one seems to mind. The sirens go away. We laugh at the thought of the police trying to find the source of the lights and the sounds and the sparkles. Most likely they’ve got better things to chase than London’s most gonzo mistimed fireworks show of the year. Most likely they’ve parked the car somewhere and are watching, as enthralled as we are. It’s time for you to go, so you say thanks and goodbye. As you cycle down the road the boys propel the last of their stash into the sky. It’s like neon light on broken glass and it speeds you home.