Sky monkeys with exploding coconuts

I'm writing this from the comfort of the 'executive suite', the small pocket of warmth I've created in the middle of my fireworks shop. Once upon a time it was some sort of reception area, so I have to lift the hatch to get behind the counter, where my mattress is. I've also got a desk, some padded chairs (like teachers used to get in assembly) and a tea table made out of a Molten Krypton box.

Today has been my first really busy day - so tomorrow and Sunday (November 5) should be even busier. Luckily Jo, my school friend from Wales, and Claire, a half-Turkish Worcester girl who saw my job advert in the window, are doing a great job of doing all the work.

I've just had an encounter with an off-duty policeman. I sold some fireworks to a lad who has been in quite often, so when he got his driver's licence out to prove his age I just waved it away and said “Don't worry, I remember you.” Truth be told, I remembered him because his licence card seemed unusualy flimsy. Just after he left the shop a red faced little man in a woolly hat strode up to the counter and flashed his wallet at me. I must have looked confused, because my first thought was 'why has he got a milk bottle top squashed into his wallet?'. Then I realised it was a police badge. But he did look like a man who would hoard old bits of tin foil.

“Did you check that lad's ID?” By this time he had adopted the wide-legged back-leaning stance of someone about to mete out righteous justice.

“Oh absolutely,” I said, “I've seen it before, he's been in a few times, he's actually nineteen.”

“Yeah? Well there's eight of his mates waiting round the corner. Do you really think he's going to a nice little bonfire party with those fireworks?”

Now I was really confused. I wondered if it really was a foil top in his wallet, and if this was an autistic attempt at conversation. “But he was over eighteen, how could I refuse him? I can't make prior judgements about how people are going to behave – as I'm sure you'd understand.”

For some reason this rankled him, so he fixed me with a beady stare while his mouth moved freely over his face searching, presumably, for some words to show me who was boss. He turned on his heel toward the door. And then turned on it again. As he spoke he jabbed his finger for emphasis: “I'm wat-ching you,” he said, in a really deep and scarey voice.

I didn't know what to say. “Ooh, goodness me. Thank you very much.”

He walked crabwise out the door, his quivering finger was the last I saw of him. I still can't work out why he got so cross with me. Maybe he mistook my confusion for smart-arsedness. Perhaps it was because when I smiled and thanked him for 'watching' me I was absently fiddling with the end of a big pink rocket. I don't know. He could have been jealous because I had so much cardboard to hoard.