In anticipation of the Weekend From Hell, featuring two choir performances preceded by the dress rehearsal, and the Remembrance Day parade, I am trying to be a Good Sport and not too bitterly resentful of the two meetings I am committed to attend tomorrow. At least we aren't having an election. Stilly, you have my sympathy.

Remembrance Day is next Sunday, so the public space is full of soppy advertising with photo montages of Great War soldiers, red poppies and flag-waving children, all accompanied by solemn music and slogans about freedom and sacrifice. I am a veteran, the daughter and grand-daughter of veterans, and I FUCKING LOATHE IT. If I were Queen of the World, we would go back to the way they did it in 1920: everybody stop dead for two minutes of silence at 11:00 a.m. in the middle of our ordinary work day, and then carry on. It creeps me out when the crowd claps as the Old Sweats (including me) march by; the Cenotaph is no place for applause. My mood is like Good Friday, and the crowd is acting as if we're the Santa Claus parade. Bloody hell.

Our cross-cut shredder died last week, so we now have a "burn bag" in the study. Back in the day, every military filing cabinet had a large brown paper bag in the bottom drawer into which one put one's classified waste, and periodically somebody came around with a wheelie bin and carted it all off to the incinerator. Our current abode has a fireplace, so I feel no need to go out and buy a new shredder; we need tinder, so the bank statements, pharmacy receipts and pages of solicitor-client notes can go up in smoke.

And the corner of the study where the shredder used to live is exactly the right size for my guitar case. I win.