Coughed half the night again; no parade for me. Date with the doc tomorrow at three.

The sky is the colour of an old aluminum saucepan, with a cloud cover so dense that the weather radar page on the Environment Canada website is down. I have no idea how often I have stood in front of one cenotaph or another in such conditions, hoping the inevitable deluge will hold off until the last wreath has been laid and the marchpast completed. In Ottawa, this day is usually chilly and raw, with a snell wind that freezes fingers and ears while the icy pavement numbs the feet despite solid boots and high-tech “sock systems”.

On the whole, another day in the comfy chair is the wiser choice.

I don’t need to visit a cenotaph to remember those acres of tombstones, or Edmund’s uncle Jackie on the Menin Gate, or my Dad looking solemn and impossibly vulnerable in a Leading Seaman’s jumper, or the stunned atmosphere at CEFCOM Headquarters in Ottawa when news arrived of soldiers dead in Kandahar, victims of yet another IED strike.