Armistice Day in Newcastle, one hundred years after the start of the First World War, I saw this disabled parking sign on the ground, which seemed somehow appropriate. The breaking up of the surface and the colours seemed to make it even more of an appropriate comment on war and its effects.
I had just spent two minutes in a hotel in silent remembrance of my Uncle Ray, who had been shot down and killed in action over alta, in the Second World War, and his Uncle Charley, who had been shot in the advance across no-man’s land on the first day of the Battle of the Somme.
Both of them were just boys, seeing major action for the first time. Their terror is incomprehensible.
When I was young, I refused to remember the folly and waste of war. Now, I think we should never forget.