Spitfire Words

Noise. Blaring, repetitive strains of ‘It’s a Kind of Magic’ punctuated with the loud screams and shrieks of exhilaration or laughter. People push in on every side, moving masses of colours and sounds coming far too close and towering tall. Flashing lights in cold darkness, lighting up misted breath and steam from the food trucks.

Sugar and hot fat and the faint smell of fireworks, all fighting to cover the crisp smell of approaching winter. Sharp frost lying on your tongue, the taste of snow and candy floss. Fingers cold and sticky grasping onto a cold and dry glove, trying to follow through all the moving obstacles.

Loud horror cackles from one side and a children’s show theme on the other. The ground is strewn with thick power cables covered in rubbery shields that give only a little under your feet.

Small fingers curl around metal safety bars that leech warmth even through gloves while hard plastic rides swirl and turn until the stars and lights blur a little.

Burning smells from a stand selling chestnuts that are always a little blackened.

Huge alcoves of brightly coloured toys and teddies surrounding the targets you need to hit to take something home.

Everything is in solid, blocky colours designed to grab attention from this ride, to that stall, to that game, to that truck, to another ride, all vying for favour along a stretch of road not normally such a confusing labyrinth.

Bright and sudden and overwhelming. Everything repeating in a chaotic loop as things and people move too quickly to process.