Mixed feelings.

What NITWIT decided that it might be a good idea to clash Wogan begging for Children in need against the Cenotaph Service? NO contest.

Last night we were glued to the Remembrance programme on telly. Today, of course, it had to be the Parade at the Cenotaph. I only discovered this year that it's no longer called Armistice Day.

It was 11:15 when She noticed that the clock had stopped and pointed out the time at which it had stopped.
In view of the day and time I just could not pass it up.

I don't think I've ever run such a gamut of emotions in the course of a single programme.

For a start: you can't help but feel a degree of Patriotic pride, then there's the sorrow for any-one lost;  whether it's a personal loss, some-one you are merely aware of, or even one of the lads you've seen mentioned on T.V.

This was accompanied and tempered by little chuckles as well known tunes floated by and got me thinking of their alternate words.
Along with packing up my troubles in my old kit-bag came and others, came ...

''Aunty Mary had a canary up the leg of her drawers....''
''It's the wrong way to tickle Mary.''
''They're changing the guard at Buckingham Palace.''

Not to mention Hitler's biological short-comings. (Colonel Bogey, if you're too young/innocent.)

Then there's a well known march which I can never think of beyond ''Ben Ingal's rat-trap song.''...
''Have you ever had your do-dahs in a rat-trap, in a rat-trap, in a rat-trap....''

Then there's Bobby Stoddart, the only man I ever knew to play his own last post.
I never hear it without thinking of Bobby, particularly as Christmas looms.

The town band used to go around town at Christmas, usually stopping off at our house for a brew part way round.

On the Christmas in question, Bobby was ''on the home-straight'' having suffered from cancer for some time.
Contrary to modern T.V. adverts it DID have a name in those days, and we were not afraid to use it, albeit in an almost subdued, reverential, manner. (Wrong word, but I feel sure you get the gist.)

Bobby stayed on after the rest left, asked Mam for a look at the Bugle, which we still have, and, sitting hunched over, on a stool, by the fire, played a tune on it.

''What's that Bobby?'' asked Mam. ''Reveille?'' 
(I remain unconvinced she didn't know, but can no longer ask her.)
''Nay lass, it's t'Last Post.'' he replied.
We never saw him again.