Blow ,bully ,blow

This battered and tattered bugle has been one of my treasured possessions for as long as I can remember. I think it came into the family through my Dad, but I am not sure, all I know is that it has been with me since I was a very small boy.

It and its big brother the copper post horn which was handed down from my great grandfather who was a postillion on the York-London stage, which stopped at the White Hart in Newark, hung in our childhood home until my Mum died and we, as families do, bickered over her meagre estate.

The bugle bears an inscription which tells us it was from the Manchester Regiment, they fought at Ypres and died, as most of the regiments did in their thousands. How the bugle ended up with us is a mystery, my Uncle Barty fought in the war as did Uncle George and Uncle Dominic. My Dad was too young, only being born in 1900, and none of my uncles really talked about the experience.

My generation will leave nothing of a martial nature to my sons, my service in the Army was short and undistinguished, I released very quickly that I was not cut out to be an officer and a gentleman, so gracefully retired from the field. Do I regret not sticking in ? Not really, in 1965 I would have been destined to Aden, or Malaya, or Catterick. I went into the city instead and hated that equally, so two strikes before I was twenty. My subsequent employment saw me through, somewhat unbelievably, to a comfortable retirement and a thirst for the adventure I lacked as a youth.

It is ironic that my Dad, who hated my desire to join the Army, was desperate for me to play the bugle, he was a great fan of brass bands, and saw me as a soloist, thats just one more way I would have disappointed him had he lived.

Is that the destiny of us all that we are doomed to frustrate our parents dreams?