It is just over a week since Rememberance Sunday and this weekend I read an article in a Sunday paper about the Youth of today. You know the sort of thing - too loud, too rude and spoiling it for others.

My Dad died 3 years ago on 13th November. Every year - including the year he died - he would be out in all weathers collected money for the Poppy Appeal. Although badly wounded in the RAF he thought himself one of the lucky ones to come home. In fact he  was one of 4 serving brothers - 2 in the RAF, 1 in the Army and 1 in the Navy. A lucky family - they all came back. None of them would talk that much about what happened despite my - and my cousins - pestering.

My son is 19. A year older than when Dad joined up in early 1940 and about the same age as when he escaped from a crash landing. A few weeks later Dad was flying again but by 21 he was facing the amputation of both legs following being shot down. He begged to keep them and the surgeon said he would try. Thanks to that surgeon, the medical team and Dad's sheer determination 12 months later he was walking with only the occasional use of crutches. He never could play football or cricket with me and my friends as his legs would give way and he only once ever flew again - prefering driving holidays.

Sometimes I lose my temper with my son and his friends. Too loud, too rude and spoiling it for others.

Then I think how grateful we should be to the youth of today and tomorrow. They are the ones who are in the frontline of every conflict. The sadness is that some never come home.