So civilised these days.  Back in the day you’d scramble to get close to the bonfire only to make a hasty retreat when the ash started to fall on your face.  There’d be a mad-cow infected hot dog or burger stand, and someone would have smuggled in some beers.  Now it’s like son et lumiere, very tastefully executed, with a light show illuminating the million pound flats overlooking the square, the smell of mulled wine wafting through the Autumnal gardens.  A sea of iPhones is held up to the sky to take pictures of the spectacularly beautiful fireworks,  which climb and fall to the sound of Shirley Bassey’s Goldfinger.  Even the lost children whose names are called out over a speaker sound like ethereal, bohemian creatures… Edith, Otto and Agnes.  Until I realise I know their parents and yes, they are ethereal, bohemian creatures.  (Manu, in the mean time, has gone all sensible and grown up on me, and reminds me I shouldn’t dance in public as it will embarrass her, and also she has school tomorrow so should be in bed before ten tonight.)  The kids complain I’ve forgotten to bring sparklers and miss a number of rather pretty pink and silver fireworks when they find a large worm rolling about between the grown ups’ feet.  The evening ends with Live and Let Die.   Perfect ending to a very exciting day.  A new president.  A new start.