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Doug is on a train to Brighton. He’d rather not be, but it’s not long to go now until he gets there. It’s no big deal – just got to meet a client for a drink and have a chat, and then jump on a train home. He’ll probably go in that pub by Brighton station later to watch the second half of the Fulham game. Doug could have gone to the match today, the conversation with the client could be continued over email, but Doug isn’t a fan of email tennis, besides, some things are worth saying, and listening too, over a couple of drinks, and he needs the work. There’s just one problem. Doug hates being in Brighton. He feels his chest tighten as he gets off the train. There’s just something about the place – pisses him right off. Even on a Sunday afternoon. He heads out of the station for the long walk down the hill to the sea, he’ll be headed well past the Wetherspoons and the Walkabout, the casino and the pier, and up to the restaurant / bar where he’ll position himself in the corner on the leather seats. Brighton. Doug spits the word out in his head. It’s full of t***s and weirdos, luminous laces and skinny jeans. He knows he shouldn’t judge but feels the insults flying around inside him. He just doesn’t like the place or the people he crosses in it. He’s never taken to it. Maybe because it’s too alien to his own culture. Maybe a drink will lift the edge off him, but the nearest bar is blaring out some kind of crap as a lesbian with a tattoo on her arm tries to reel him in. Her tattoo is a signature, the sort of thing he’s seen on the end of an email about if you don’t stand up for something you stand for nothing; it’s not the sort of thing you mark on your arm. Doug tries to breathe in some of the sea air, but even that seems poisonous. It’s not like Worthing where his mum lived for a bit. He used to love going down there. Here it feels more polluted, less pure. But that is Brighton for you. He hates it. Full of pricks and dicks. Doug crossed the road and walked past the casino. It would be different in there. High rollers mixed with the average Joe’s. He could sip a drink and swirl the ice around his glass, take a seat at a cash game and hold his own. Get dealt the cowboys and slow play his trips that he’d hit on the flop. Take the pot down. Or sit at the roulette table. Watch the board and follow the pattern. He believed there was one. It was more than pure mathematics and chance. You had to feel it. Wait a while. Lump it on red. Then move on to black jack. Choose the dealer carefully. A connection that gives you the edge. But none of that is for now. He had to meet James. He could see the pub / restaurant ahead and he suddenly became annoyed that he would probably miss all of the first half of the football…. but these things happen. He wasn’t going to let his client down. He was proud of his job. He’d see the second half anyway, at least, and he had a few games lined up in due course. He pulled open the restaurant door and went to the bar. One by U2 was playing. He ordered a pint and paid for it and went for a piss. The song was playing over the toilet speakers, too. Doug takes his pint and sits down. He can see a bored middle aged Doris staring out the window while her husband waffles away, droning on and on. The husband gets up and goes to the bar for a refill. The Doris looks as bored as hell. She tolerates his noise. Doug wonders how it ever got to that. It’s as stale as anything. The trick is to keep it fresh. Don’t take love for granted. Stay loyal. Doug was a loyal person. A faithful husband. A good friend. Beyond the bored Doris are four Yorkshire lads clustered around a table. They’ve come down to Brighton for a session. Maybe a stag do. Maybe a last minute dot com. They’re tucking into their lager. Loud and boisterous. Instinct tells him they are dirty Leeds. Hard f***ers whose dads worked the mines and whose mums counted the pennies and made the meals last. Working class lads. Could be Hull, Wednesday or Sheffield United – you fill up my senses – but Doug just knows they’re Leeds – sitting in here getting lucky with a sunny day today, but the heat wave is long gone – they’d be better off spending their wages in Ayia Napa but here they are paying over the top prices in Brighton and sneering at the pricks and the queens, southern softies who don’t offer gravy on chips, they don’t even come close to knowing what it’s like to be a hard f***er from Yorkshire. Every time the door opens Doug looks up to see if it is his client, and every time he looks up at least one of the Yorkshire lads looks at him looking up, and shifts a little more in his seat, and this goes on for nearly ten minutes and Doug weighs it up, this is how often Doug lives, the anger coiled inside him like a spring waiting to go, and the alcohol hasn’t soothed him yet, he’s all tight, wound up – letting Brighton get to him, so he pinches the bridge of his nose and tunes into the song playing now on the speakers – Lovin You by Minnie Riperton – and Doug tells himself it’s not long with James and the deal will be sealed and that means more work for him in a recession, he needs to be grateful, he’ll pay the bills and run the van and get to the football and have a holiday in the New Year – somewhere hot – and it won’t be long before he leaves here and find himself approaching the station, he’ll choose a homeless man and buy him a coffee before jumping on the train home enjoying some time out of the motor and the Sunday traffic, leaving Brighton behind him. The Yorkshire accents have disappeared now as Doug has control back and the door opens and James walks in and Doug rises to meet him, putting out his hand, anticipating that James will take it.

Walter

29^th August 2009

Never Eat Shredded Wheat at: walterotton.co.uk

I’m sitting in a pub with a pint of London Pride and I’m treasuring the book that I’m reading. I’m having my time, me time. The kids are asleep in bed, so I’ve nipped down the boozer. It is always quiet on a Sunday night, except on bank holidays of course. I used to read a book a day on holiday. Not any more. When it was just me, I’d pack at least ten books in my bag and lie by the pool in under a hot, foreign sun and read. Once I read eight Ian Fleming James Bond novels back to back… in sequel, of course. These days I get frustrated – too many books that I want to read, and I don’t have enough time on earth to read them, and more are getting written every day. I need another life. I need to be reincarnated. But, right now, I have got a good book and some time off work, so I lose myself in the pages enthusiastically, only disentangling myself from its power to jot a note or slurp some Pride. I consider how, if I could turn back the clock before children, I would bang out a few books myself and maybe a hundred articles – and good articles at that – life changing books that would be on the shelves and roll off the nations tongue like Trainspotting or The Football Factory or The Beach – but I never did write them – so here I am – working hard, two children, a property to maintain and essays to write for my Uni course (I’m already behind) – but I’ve got this book and I’m reading it carefully – an old friend called David recommended it to me – titled The New York Trilogy – and so far, it’s so good. It is the kind of book that I devour late at night by low lamp light when my wife is sleeping next to me, hoping that the light doesn’t disturb her as she sleeps – like the other night I did just that and I suddenly felt hungry and got up out my bed and rummaged in the cupboard and found a packet of pistachio nuts and I ate about fifty of them, dropping the shells into a bowl, but the nuts irritate my sore throat so I get a Solero ice lolly out the freezer… it’s been sitting in there since the summer… but I eat it and love it. I glance at the kitchen clock and I realize that it is the night before New Years Eve and I don’t have to get up in the morning so I go back to the bedroom and lie on my front with my pillow under my elbows and I carry on reading having my time, me time, reading with the lamp on low and the missus sleeping gently to my right with my eight week old son sleeping between us and my two year snores next door with a bottle of milk resting on her pillow – armed and ready for the three o’clock in the morning wake up – locked and loaded with half a pint of full fat milk to consume before she nods back off to sleep – and now a movement to my left jolts me upright in my chair, I’m in the pub with a pint of London Pride and I smile as I close this notebook and close the New York Trilogy because three of my mates have walked into the boozer and it’s time for drinking, there’s no work tomorrow and life could be worse.

It has just gone five o’clock and its rush hour on a Friday in late February. I’ve had the day off and I’ve been down the boozer since lunchtime. Commuters are packed in around me, and while I look at them I think to myself that normally I look just like you, stressed out needing to get home, punching the buttons on my mobile phone – often feeling like I want to frisbee the thing into the Thames, I coped without one of the stupid things ten years ago – so right now I want to tell them to chill out – I mean it is a Friday and it’s been a lovely day weather wise because we’re approaching March – cropping up are daffodils and snow drops, crocuses and tulips signifying spring time – so whatever it is you’re wound up about there’s no need, chill out, whatever it is, its not that important. The train doors whoosh open and a girl gets on, opens her book with the words RING DAD written in black ink on the back of her left hand. She’s not really reading her book, she’s aware of me looking at her, so I turn away and look out the window until the train slows towards its next stop, and a pigeon darts past my window, the train stops, the doors whoosh open, many citizens get off, several get on, and I look up at the ring-dad-girl and she wasn’t quick enough to get a seat, maybe she was distracted looking at me when she should have been thinking about getting comfortable for the rest of her journey home.

I think about a lad I know called Duke. And he is a bit of a lad. Duke is 14 and lost his virginity at Christmas. I hope he used a condom. The local youth club dish them out for free. I can’t help thinking that if Duke had three pounds is his pocket, he’d probably buy some Golden Virginia tobacco and a packet of Green Rizlas, not invest in Durex. Duke himself is one of six children, and right after Christmas his dad kicked his mum in the face before walking out on her. She showed me the bruises – well to be honest it wasn’t hard to miss them seeing as they’re all over her face. There they were, right where he kicked her; Booted her; Smashed her up. It’s been seven weeks since that happened, nearly two months since Christmas. I wonder if Durex Duke ever feels like ringing his dad.

The train starts to slow as it comes to my stop. The doors open and I step out into the cold air, the sun sinking now. I walk by the River, keen not to bump into anyone I know – countless, incessant examples of Durex Dukes and of fatherless children and their fatherless mothers and most probably fatherless grandmothers spinning around my head, even fathers that are present can be despicable human beings, cursing their children instead of breaking the cycle – the twisted world grinding me down now – I need to think about something else, I look out over the River and dig my hands into my jacket pockets – a bargain off ebay – and purposefully walk the long way home worrying especially about Durex Duke when a thought comes to my mind, a painting from yesteryear called the Accolade, Guinevere knighting Sir Lancelot, the acclamation he needed, I don’t know why it pops into my mind and I don’t know how it fits in, but I’m sure it does and will somewhere, somehow.

Finally I get home and inevitably (I’ve been thinking about this the whole time) pick my little boy up. His name means the sun. Sunshine. Brighten up my life. Lighten up those around you. He smiles at me. Four months old now. I walk around the living room with him, holding him close, the fresh clean scent of his clean baby grow soothing me as I listen to his gentle breathing. I wonder if the ring-dad-girl on the train remembered to
Give him a ring. I hope he told her that he believes in her, supports her, cherishes her and loves her. She needs him. The world needs dads. Especially surrogate ones.

It’s a crisp morning and I’m at Kings Cross and I’ve got plenty of time to kill until my train, I’ve done this on purpose, I hate rushing last minute, I’m cool with waiting, I went for a walk and got some food and drink, mixing with commuters, tourists and of course the labourers just coming off their night shifts and queuing for KFC. I’m letting all of their journeys and missions buzz all around me with their agendas and tasks and job lists at the forefront of their minds when I’m cool coz I’ve got time to kill. I glance at a newsagent window and manage to read various slips of card advertising a fish tank, a car, a pushchair, a bicycle and cheap phone calls to Africa – cheap phone calls to Africa – it’s not too long since I was in Kenya – in my minds eye now I’m in the front seat of the jeep with Roy the builder driving next to me, I’m hanging out the window taking in the scenery of poverty at it’s worst. We reach a busy roundabout and it’s each to their own with cars and trucks fighting for space. A huge sign on the roundabout tries to deter the madness. It reads:

Hospital ceilings are boring.

On this stretch of Nairobi road, most of the simple shops and houses are painted with adverts for mobile phone companies, Coca Cola and Nescafe / Nestle. The suits pay the home owners for the adverts to be painted there, and who can blame the proprietors, they need the money – if another company arrive and offer more Kenyan shillings they can white wash the walls and paint the new advert on the side of the house. In a sad, almost evil twist, the very products they are promoting are owned by the multi national companies who actually have the power to unlock them from the poverty that they’re kept in. Multi nationals are more powerful than governments. And the shillings the home and shop owners pocket go towards getting the kids a second hand tee shirt that has a Nike tick on it or three Adidas stripes in the corner to push them a little further up their ladder. It’s a mad world.

I’m at Kings Cross and I’ve got plenty of time to kill until my train, I’ve done this on purpose, I hate rushing last minute, I’m cool with waiting. I don’t want to be standing for twenty minutes in a queue waiting to get through the barrier to get on my train, I can hand the geezer my ticket with a smile and go and find my reserved seat, place my bag above my head and lay out my sandwiches and drink and book and newspaper and biro out in front of me. I’m going up to Nottingham and beyond for a three day conference. Once I was in Nottingham for Forest v Chelsea. It went mad afterwards, Chelsea kicking the **** out of the Forest mob on Trent Bridge. They had it coming, mocking the death of the vice chairman Matthew Harding who had died in a helicopter crash. That was over twelve years ago now. Time has marched on. Bruises heal. Scars remain. Hospital ceilings are boring.

I’m at Kings Cross and I’ve got plenty of time to kill until my train, I’ve done this on purpose, I hate rushing last minute, I’m cool with waiting. This is going to be a break from the norm and if I’m honest, a very welcome break. The wife has taken the kids to her mums while I return to the complex that I’ve stayed in before. It’s a quiet, tidy little place. I’ll arrive by lunchtime and I can see myself now, hanging a couple of fresh shirts in the simple wardrobe, flick the kettle on and make myself a fair-trade coffee with a cup that is far too small and open the foil lid on a tiny shot of milk in a thimble size packet that may have been sitting their for days. Then I’ll inspect the bathroom and urinate long and hard, relief, glad that I’m here and the maid has wiped away the hairs of the guest I’ve replaced – yes this is my room now. I’ve got bland, flowery curtains and four channels on the television, a new power shower which makes the stay more enjoyable – twenty minutes I’ll stand under the shower letting the hot water blast over my shoulders, hair and face – slowly shave and then rub in some of that Body Shop face protector stuff my wife buys me every now and again – then I can crash on the double bed all to myself and sleep for the longest I’ve slept in the six weeks since my boy was born – minute after brilliant minute in a deep sleep, recovering, recuperating and maybe even over sleeping and missing my first lecture.

At last here I am in my reserved seat. Relaxed. Chilled. No last minute rushes. No stress. I have got a few hours until I reach my duration. I look around the carriage and observe a sweet lady in her mid sixties as she fiddles with an old school Nokia mobile phone – it’s the size of a brick – and every time she presses a button the keypad loudly beeps. She’s either sending a text or playing the original snake game. I’d like to think it’s the latter. After a while the beeping stops and she gets out of her seat, walks through the automatic doors and later returns with a cup of coffee. She settles herself down and opens up her handbag and takes out a bundle of kitchen roll. Inside the bundle is a slab of Battenberg cake. She peels off the marzipan, breaks the pieces into squares, eats the pink squares, then the yellow squares, then the marzipan before folding the crumbs in the kitchen roll and popping it back in her hand bag. It makes me feel like a slice. I close my eyes. I’m going to take my time over this. We live in an instant coffee world. Fighting for space at a roundabout. If only I took some time to percolate, it would taste so much better.

Peel off the marzipan.
Break it into squares.
Eat one pink.
Eat one yellow.
Eat half the marzipan.
Eat one pink.
Eat one yellow.
Eat half the marzipan.
Drink some fair trade coffee.
Boycott Nestle.
Kick the **** out of Forest.
Hospital ceilings are boring.

Walters book ‘Never Eat Shredded Wheat’ available from: walterotton.co.uk

I’m walking over Putney Bridge and I see a woman on the other side. I know instantly who she is – by that I mean I don’t actually know her, I’ve never spoken to her – but she is often there sitting in her scooter or motorized wheelchair or whatever they’re called, parked by the riverside and staring ahead. She is wrapped up warm. It’s incredible really, because the last time I saw her was when I made the exact same journey nearly a year ago on New Years Day 2008 on my way to the Fulham game. One year on and here is the same lady in an identical position. It’s cold, and she appears frozen in her spot. I imagine her routine. I predict it. She lives the other side of the River. She leaves her home and climbs in her chair, and maneuvers her way towards Putney Bridge taking no prisoners, and works her way down onto the Thames Path facing east and watching the River. Maybe, if the birds come to her, she will feed them.

Feed the birds, tuppence a bag.

She is continually watching the River, taking in its colours and its reflection of the sky. Every day the sky and River display different shades at different times – always alternatives of grey and more often that not shades of blue. Then you can get pinks, oranges and purples – millions of slight adaptions to these three colours – especially as the clouds, the sun and the moon come and go, back and forth. The tides change and the rowers row and she sits and watches the River and maybe, if the birds come to her, she will feed them.

She is conscious of the football fans pouring over the bridge to go for a pre match drink or across into Bishops Park to get to the ground – but she ignores them. She has sat there for years feeding the birds and watching the River, away fans coming and going every other Saturday – same routine of beer and singing, just different colours of their teams – and she remembers the days when South West London would watch Chelsea at home one week, and Fulham at home the next week – she is a real hero of the community – a South West London girl who has seen madness take over the world – moving, flashing advertisments on the London buses and mobile phones and forty inch plasma screens – she can remember when you drew hopscotch squares in chalk on the pavement for your entertainment – Chelsea at home one week, Fulham at home the next week – and as I study this woman and hypothesise about her history I inevitably think of Mary Fulham from the Alton Estate, Roehampton – she died in 2005 – she spent her life following Fulham and only missed a few games in that time – a remarkable woman who I had the honour of knowing – and I look for one last time down at the woman watching the River, Chelsea home one week and Fulham at home the next, and tell myself that the next time I see her I will go down and say good morning.

There’s something about the Eight Bells pub that I love, especially on match day when we’re at the Cottage, and it’s cold outside but I’m warm inside as this is my first game since Villa in September and I’m telling Den that if you told me six years ago I’d be out of London, married with two kids and no season ticket I would never, ever have believed it. But here I am. Big Chris points out a lad with rosy cheeks and I laugh hard and shake my head – Rosy Cheeks was next to us on the train back from Wigan a couple of years ago which was the funniest journey I’ve ever had in my life. I push through some older men singing about Ian Britton on the wing and slap Rosy Cheeks on the back and smile and he says Hello Mate and we have a chat before I wish Rosy Cheeks a Happy New Year and go back to the lads.

Life could be worse.

As we leave for Bishops Park, the away fans choir outside are belting out an old terrace anthem. I like the Thames next to me as I walk to the ground. I wonder what it would feel like to be a rower on the Thames passing the Cottage when the roar goes up of a goal going in. I haven’t been to a game for a while, and as a result I’m appreciating it a bit more. I hang back a few paces and take it all in, the alcohol warming my body. There’s something traditional and nostalgic about going through the turnstiles at Craven Cottage, and I greet the operator and ask him how is Christmas was before pushing my way through the metal wheel.

I stand to the left against the barrier as the crowds push through the turnstiles. I’m thinking about London. I’m thinking about Big Ben chiming at New Year. I’m thinking about the red buses that pave their way through a City that never sleeps. And all the while the River Thames keeps on flowing as Big Ben keeps on ticking. I think of the elderly lady on the Thames Path by Putney Bridge feeding the birds and watching the River when suddenly Tall Paul appears and breaks the spell as he gleefully presses a plastic pint glass full of flat Carlsberg into my palm as someone to my left starts a song.

Tick tock.
The tides change.
The colours fascinate.
The lady watches.
The waves lap.
Tick tock, tick tock.

Walters book ‘Never Eat Shredded Wheat’ available from: walterotton.co.uk

The pub is quite full for an early Tuesday evening. It is only a Tuesday. It’s probably something to do with the amount of pubs that have closed recently in the next town – at least five in the past year. But booze is cheaper than water in supermarkets these days and with Christmas coming up they are dropping their prices more than ever before: thirty-six cans for twenty quid – but sitting at home with more cans in the fridge than lights on your Christmas tree isn’t for Rob, he’s told me several times he needs a bit of interaction – people to observe and things to keep him occupied – something as simple as holding the door open for someone coming into the Gents as he walks out. Plus a bit of interaction with the staff as communication happens all around him – plus a newspaper to read and a TV on in the background keeping the minutes ticking over. This is a place for Robert to belong when he needs it to be.

Folk with light hair litter the establishment. A man in his mid eighties sips his ale and unsteadily deals cards to his friend sitting opposite. They are impeccably dressed. Cleanly shaved and looking respectful. I wonder what they think when they look at me. Rob wonders how the war affected them. I feel ashamed that I’m not currently wearing a poppy, I’ve lost three in as many days, because I want these old boys at their table to know that I’m thinking of the price their generation paid and a poppy on display would tell them that. I turn to Rob and speculate to him that I wonder how they feel when they look in the mirror – do they see a younger man staring back behind the jaded cheeks, the failing eyesight, the wrinkles, the bushy eyebrows and the white hair. Rob smiles and nods at them when they look towards us. They nod and smile back to Rob. They know.

I’m about to raise my glass when this, as well as my focus and thoughts, are severed as a mid twenty something wearing Reebok Classics and a Paul Smith V neck struts past and clearly stares at Rob before turning to feed the fruit machine. He is standing in our way, blocking Rob and my view of the old boys and their card game. I’m thinking maybe I can offer the old boys a drink later, when I hear Rob breathe in so I look at him and he is clenching his jaw because Reebok Classics took that moment to stare. It was only a stare, but there are some occasions when that says a lot between alpha males. He now loudly slaps the nudge buttons when there’s not even an option to nudge, a sheep feeding a fruit machine. No style. No ideas. Same old – a pint of lager on top of the fruity before seeing charlie in the toilet. Probably ripping off some old widow as he paints and decorates her hallway – turning up late and leaving early – demolishing disrespectfully her biscuit tin to top up his breakfast and not spraying air freshener after last nights take away and lager hits her bowl which she’s only just cleaned from the day before. He probably steals her bog roll to take home and use as his own. Classy Mister Reebok Classics…

Rob looks away from the fruit machine and the back of a V neck to tell me that it’s that kind of bloke who ruins his evening – a bully who intimidates others who has just got unwittingly out his depth should he choose to stare again. Rob tells me he’s irritated – this idiot has irritated him by disrupting his thoughts and his solitude – all in a strut and a stare – if he finishes his game on the fruity and looks back again then my patience may go – he’s had his chance, he’s taken a liberty.

I’ve only heard Rob like this a few times before. Only once has it amounted to something when I watched him knock out four lads at Fulham Broadway before their two remaining mates ran.

Today is Remembrance Day. He was remembering, amongst others, his grandfather who lived to tell the tale, but never did. He was remembering his grandmother who would talk to whoever would listen – rations and the underground, the blitz and the evacuees. He was remembering his father from 2 Para in the Falklands – Rob was ten years old at the time – and a mother who cheated unforgivably with another while Rob was at school and his dad was away. Looking back it was inevitable that Rob, straight from school, followed in his fathers and his grandfathers footsteps.

Only once Rob has mentioned his life as a paratrooper to me, and that was, in hindsight, because I had pushed him to do so. I wanted the old Robert back – a cheeky grin and a green bomber jacket laughing at an ounce of weed sitting next to the Platoon soundtrack perched on his bedroom cabinet next to his CD player. However, here he was on leave – his first ‘proper’ leave since enrolling and training. He had aged. The paras had changed him. It was an education for me. I’m certain Rob was still a teenager when he was posted to Northern Ireland. I remember writing to him with a newspaper cut out of a Chelsea match report. The last game we’d been to together was before the terracing came down. Now he was back and the lads were excited to see him. In my naivety, I kept asking him about his stint away when I should have realised that it was better left alone. We were in a pub / club in Sutton when one of the lads got up to get a round in. They’d been teasing Rob all night. I suppose they didn’t know how to handle it, so they just took the piss out of him constantly. In that moment, when it was just me and him at the table, Rob told me a simple thing – he described children who approached him, verbally abused him and spat on him – he said it was the hardest thing because he was keeping the peace on their street and they were so ferocious in their hate to him.

Then the round of beers appeared and the lager carrier took the piss out of Rob again, asking him to clear the table of empties like a good little Private and stop being a lazy ****. Rob swept all the empties off the table in one quick, fierce motion with his arm, smashing a multitude of pint glasses all over the floor. Then he got up and walked out. It was at least a year since I saw him again. I can still picture his face now – eyes that glowered darkly on a face that kept in the emotion built up from stories and secrets that would stay locked inside forever – from training and initiation, then being sent to Northern Ireland and later to Africa and then travelling back to leafy Surrey – and that was just in his first few years, if not less. Years later, a few of the lads have speculated since about his involvement in the SAS. They are probably correct. However, to this day, and many, many years of service later, I have still never asked Robert another question about his army life again.

This Remembrance Day morning I got up and went to Tescos for some bread and milk. I was annoyed at first that I hadn’t gone there the night before. The air was cold and my breath puffed out like I’d exhaled from a fat cigar. When I crossed at the traffic lights I passed the village war memorial, its base covered in poppies. I ambled over and stood and took a deep breath. Although I knew I’d probably see Rob that night, I didn’t really think about anything or anyone, though perhaps I should have, you know – concentrated on something specific – but there was just lots of things that weren’t really important rattling frustratingly through my mind. I didn’t feel qualified to hover there, maybe because I didn’t understand what was expected of me. So I got a grip, I shook my head, I cleared my mind and I simply stood to attention in silence.