On Friday, just before 11 oโclock, a precious thing happened. One of the barbers on the high street stepped out of his shop holding a trumpet. He lifted it to his lips, took a deep breath, and played the Last Post. Other shopkeepers came out of their shops and stood respectfully. People on the street stopped too. I pulled the pushchair over to the side of the pavement. As he lowered his trumpet again we stood in silence, remembering.
Lots of people didnโt stop and the traffic blared on past but it felt like those who had stopped had entered a little bubble of stillness. At last the barber raised his trumpet again to play The Rouse, tipped his cap to the people who had stopped and went back into his shop.
In a week when the world had suddenly become a much more strange and frightening place, and the person who went on to win the most powerful seat on our planet was using rhetoric that held our hard-won rights and freedoms, and most importantly our peace, in contempt, it was indeed a precious thing.
