"Ooooh, aren't you a tall one" she says.

She reaches up and brushes my cheek with her hand. Her finger slides across my jaw line and runs slowly down my neck. She teases her fingers inside the collar of my jacket and, taking a firm grip, pulls me down to her level. Her other hand moves slowly up my arm, tracing the outline of my bicep and rests on my shoulder.

"Here let me unzip this, that should make it easier." I say.

She slides her hand inside my jacket and rests it against my chest. She smiles. I smile. She begins to fumble slightly and looks up at me for reassurance. I offer to help she declines. We share a nervous giggle.

This has never happened to me. I don't recall the old woman from the Royal British Legion ever attaching the poppy to my jacket before.

My poppy stands for many things. I like to take the opportunity every year to remember people who died in wars who maybe didn't want to go to war, which I imagine was quite a lot back in conscription / draft times or who went to war when they probably shouldn't have had to. I also like to think that if we keep reminding everyone that actual, real people DIE when there are wars, everyone will stop shooting at each other.

I find myself having to explain this to any Jeremy and Tristan who seem to think that wearing a poppy means unequivocal support for blowing innocent people up. At this point they usually choke on their Paninis.

Also, and more importantly, when someone sees me with a poppy attached to my jacket, it acts as a nice reminder to them that my birthday is a week tomorrow.

(Amazon wish list to appear soon!)