They don’t have poppies here

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poppyRegular readers of this blog may know that The Son is currently in Switzerland. He’s playing ice hockey with a team out there for a few months. We speak most days via Skype, and as a result, I probably have more of an audience with my 17-year old than most mothers. Sometimes it’s just to answer questions like “Does the gravelly stuff in the dishwasher clean stuff or do I need to buy more tablets?” and other times, the conversations can surprise you. Last night as I was about to sign off, he told me a funny story. He had gone to a florist’s tiny stall near the station – the ‘shop’ being no more than a one-person micro-caravan. He had to wake the heavily sleeping owner in order to buy something, so it’s obviously not a hotspot for sales. And what was he buying? A single rose, as “they don’t have poppies here”.

You could have knocked me down with a feather. This young man, whose entire life revolves around a not very gentle sport, had remembered remembrance. I will be observing the two minute silence at 11.00 am this morning, the anniversary of the end of World War I.

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