Fireworks at the Town Hall last night—the Vicarage is a stone’s throw away. The dog really does not like the bangs, squeaks and whooshes. I was in bed with a virus, so to speak, and he tried to get into my skin, trembling and panting in terror.

Last night was a Sikh festival, but it’s much the same at New Year, Christmas, Eid, Divali, and for about a week over Halloween/Guy Fawkes.

The poor creature is a rescue dog. Since he came to us about three years ago, he’s better than he was, but he’s still terrified of brushes, men in hoodies, the sounds of a football match, and traffic, especially lorries. And he will not come through a doorway if you are standing by it.

We’ve all got our fears. Some of them are rational, some not. Some of the irrational ones hark back to our evolution: we recoil from some creatures because inherited knowledge deep inside recognizes that they might be, or once have been, harmful. I dislike spiders and always call for SWMBO to deal with them. Obviously I am more sensitive to inherited wisdom than she is.

The things that terrify Og the Dog are more likely to be learnt than inherited. It does not speak well of the humans that he met during his first two years.

Back to fireworks. My children will tell you with glee of their foolish and incompetent father who, when they were in single figures and we lived in Nottingham, dropped a match into the box of fireworks. The results were dangerously spectacular.