Last year, my sister held a party to celebrate her birthday. It was a milestone birthday, so a rather large and convivial gathering was planned. Being expat South Africans in the UK, she and her husband automatically centred the party around a braai (barbecue) which is pretty much the way South Africans optimistically cope with living in places were outdoor entertainment could be a bit iffy. They were lucky, the weather was fine and the guests spread out into the garden.
The party was moving along nicely, when sirens were heard and, typically for a small village, the grapevine kicked into high gear. Word spread that a farmer had turned up an unexploded WWII bomb in one of his fields and the bomb squad were responding. Guests went off to investigate and discovered that all the action could be safely viewed from the footpath behind the party venue.
I had a great mental picture of how it all went down. Nicely turned-out guests lined up on the footpath, champagne glasses in hand, sipping their bubbly and cheering in a very restrained English way when the bomb squad chaps left a satisfactory crater in the farmer’s field. You can even hear it: BANG! cheer! clink! sip…laughter…chat.
I’m glad my sister didn’t plan on fireworks, they would have been rather a disappointment after having the chance to experience the spectacular death of a piece of history.
When I heard the story, this rather silly and badly executed cartoon sprung to mind.
An rapid-fire sketch of a brain spark which sprang from an explosive story.