The lights arched high in the night sky, screaming towards their apex, before bursting into colourful showers of sparks, bright and ephemeral; clever neon tricks in sliver, magenta and chartreuse. The heavy, guttural hammer of the bangs thudded like Civil War cannons in the darkness, as if calling through the chilly air like ancient drums invoking primal forces.

The crowd stared upwards, enraptured by the great flowers of fire that blossomed over their heads in the gardens of the heavens. They ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ with each burst, lost in wonderment, hot dogs and muddy children forgotten.

Buffy was just cold.