Yesterday I stayed in bed all day. After a week of preparation and two days of Brewing In The Basement at the Barbican Centre, my body demanded a break, and for once I listened. I didn’t have a load of choice in the matter because it’d pretty much stopped working anyway.

It was a glorious sunny day and I had my blind open so the sunlight could stream in. I didn’t really notice the light fade away as dusk crept in.

It was my tics that noticed the darkness first by the rumble of fireworks that started as soon as dusk settled in. Like microwave popcorn the volleys of sound started far apart, but as the evening wore on an almost constant growl of bangs and pops developed.

My tics turned their attention to the lamp-post outside my bedroom window:

“Lamp-post, do you want a social story about fireworks night?”
“Penny for the lamp-post!”
“Lamp-post, do you need ear defenders?”
“National Embarrass the Lamp-posts with Superior Illumination Night.”
“Lamp-post, are Catherine wheels the lights of your dreams?”
“Lamp-post, you could try saying ‘Bang’ to make yourself more interesting.”

I’d been feeling a little sad at being too tired to go out and see any fireworks this year but this surreal interaction with lamp-post improved my mood – although maybe not the lamp-post’s.