‘Excuse me, sir, but why are you wearing a poppy? Remembrance Day was on Thursday.” The speaker was a Spanish gentlemen. The scene: the breakfast room of a hotel in Valladolid, an hour’s train ride north-west of Madrid, on Saturday, the 13th of this month. I was struggling with the toaster. You know how it is when one arrives at a self-service breakfast room.
I replied that I always wore a poppy until Remembrance Sunday, when there was the traditional Cenotaph parade in London. “Ah,” he said.
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