Remembrance

The old man waited for the crowds to disperse. His face was lined and serious, but he didn't look unhappy. His eyes bore both pride and sadness, but something about his delicate movements displayed contentment, or at least acceptance. He wore his smartest black jacket, with medals attached. His trousers were ironed perfectly with seams running down each leg. His white hair was neatly combed back, and his shoes were lovingly polished. He walked slowly and deliberately, unconcerned that he was travelling against the flow of traffic. They may have done their bit, but there was still something he must do.

As the parade prepared to leave, the marching band attempted to start up. The troops came to attention, the Brownies and Boy Scouts fidgeted, but few seemed to notice him. Glancing between his goal and the uneven ground beneath, he approached the war memorial. It was already surrounded by impressive wreaths, but was yet missing one thing which he carried, a simple wooden cross with one Poppy attached. Quietly he paid his respects. He stood before the stone memorial and knelt unsteadily to place his tribute. He remained there for a moment, one arm bracing himself against the stone, one hand lightly upon his cross. He was only six years old in 1945, but the war had affected him deeply. He pictured hazy memories, people he had loved dearly and some he had never had the chance to grow up with. Slowly he rose again, stood to attention and saluted.

"At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them."
We Will Remember Them.

Finding the time

Trying to get back into the blog again has been fun, if not as productive as I'd hoped. But the combination of finding the time to write, balancing hobbies with work and embarking on a course outside of both areas has made me think a little about where I work best. I have come up with the following poles: The ideal place to work, and the totally hopeless place.

Good space: The room isn't exactly tidy, but there is enough space to breathe and think. There's space on the desk for the laptop, but ultimately she ends up using pen and paper, sitting on her bed. The pillow is propped up against the headboard as a back suport. Snuggly socks and a cooler-than-boiling cup of tea get her in a good mindset for creating. Everybody is out of the house. It's raining outside and she's confident that the only place to be is inside, writing.

Bad space: She sits at the lunch table, notebook visible to all. It lies between an unidentified sticky patch and a coffee stain. She can feel the eyes of her colleagues intruding on her work. "What are you doing?" It's crowded and people are coming and going, chatting and speculating. Nothing gets done.

Writers out there...where do you work best? How do you fit everything in?