I wanted to try and capture some of the servicemen and ex-servicemen who might come into the coffee shop prior making their way to the war memorial. There were a scant few. I recognised the bearded lad in a the same blue blazer (was he an officer perhaps?) but other than that there was a older man in a black beret – straight-backed and serious (he said he would be a paratrooper) and another man in khaki with a huge tranche of medals on his chest. I asked where he had served. “Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iraq and Ireland,” he said, adding, “and I am still serving.” I was moved but his bravery. Was it OK to ask him? Later some of us stood up to watch the parade go past the window outside. They were motley crue from aged soldiers still ram-rod-backed to young, pink-faced cadets and slightly bemused sea scouts. The marching left a little to be desired but the thought was there and the band played them along. It was a nice, sweet, parochial affair but important, I think.
Walking back from the car I strode purposively up the little steps. “You didn’t stroke the lavender,” he called out behind me, “so I did it for you.”
