In need of bacon, as one often is on a Sunday morning, I nipped into the Bampton shop just before the village remembrance parade. A young lad, about thirteen I’d guess, walked in and moved, a little hesitantly, towards a spot just in front of me in the queue. The usual uniform. Trainers. Trackie bottoms. Hoodie.
I noticed he had a handful of change. A couple of pound coins, some silver. As though he’d raided his moneybox.
He gave me a nervous smile and said “‘Scuse me…”
He reached past me to the box of poppies and the collecting tin by the till. He carefully dropped his coins into the box, took a poppy and a pin. My turn to smile.
The youth of today, huh?
Bless him, – they’re not all bad.
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Around here most of them are delightful. Still remember the gang who sat on the green, horseing around and knocking back cans of lager and bottles of cider. About 11pm, one got out a black plastic bag, picked up all the cans and bottles and took it home.