When I was a teenager I was a member of a scout troop attached to a church in south Manchester. On Rememberence Sunday the scouts would parade to church and proudly carry the flag and solemnly set it next to the altar for the service. During the service an old(er) man, Frank, we all knew as rather grumpy would move to the front of the church and read the names in the Book of Rememberence; it was the only time we'd see the book out of its glass case. It listed the names of men from the church and scout troop who had given their lives during the second world war and as he read this big man would have tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks - he'd known all of them through the church or scouts and fought alongside a couple of them.
That's one of the things I think about during the silence at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
As an aside; Frank passed away gently, of a heart attack, in his seat in the main stand at Maine Road watching his beloved Manchester City.
The image is one of mine from a set of poppies from June, 2009.
