I was driving back from pistage on Sunday morning, through tiny, windy roads on the top of cliffs, wondering whether Porridge would be sick or not. I turned on radio 4 to relieve the tension with the Archers, since I already know what has happened in Ambridge by the time of the Sunday repeat.
I was just a few moments before the radio silence of Remembrance Sunday and I got caught unawares and unprepared for it, the legions of the lost marching past my minds eye, as I drove back on autopilot.
It was only when I was sitting down to lunch and looked at the knife next to my plate that I realised the magic of physical objects to conjure up the presence of the long gone.
It isn’t a very nice knife. It usually stays in the drawer until the dishwasher is bulging and all the other prettier knives have been taken out. But when I look at it, it makes me think of my mum without fail.
3 days ago