I think I know what you are expecting to read on here tonight. You are probably expecting me to launch into my usual prosaic bollocks about the futility of war, or about sacrifice; perhaps the word ‘folly’ would be in there somewhere. But why should I write that entry? What would be the point? We all know the score; we have all seen the pictures of the poppies and the devistation. You have read and heard what I have read and heard, so what could I, a man with no experience of war, possibly add. Today was pretty normal for me: up to Stratford to try to get my Mac fixed, then down to bexleyheath to get some shopping. A day of rolling around South london, free to go as I please in my chair. Yet that too is the best thing I can write about today, for those men whose deaths we mark today gave their lives so I can enjoy such freedoms. (Or so we are told, although to question such things is in itself to excercise a freedom).