Each had a story of the last world war, holding memories of fallen comrades and friends; Small and large victories; amusing anecdotes and tales to enthral young children, or bore the elder, young men. Not all of the war had been about blood and guts, mud, hard rations or killing the Germans and the Japanese. Some of it had lighter moments, but not much.Every year he stood apart away from the massed crowds and watched. He watched alone, and then left when it was done. Back to his little flat in Chelsea, back to his loneliness and the memories of his lost love, dead these past forty-nine years, dead and saved from the possibility of execution, dead by his own hand. Each year, the pangs of loss were more acute and all he had left was to wait, wait until they were reunited in death. He would not hurry the event. Not that he was afraid of dying. He had been dying, piece-by-piece, bit-by-bit since he had lost her.He got up from the bench and made his annual pilgrimage. Catching tube and. We talked later, decided there probably would be children, that adoption wasn’t an option, that Laura’s method would be used again, but not just then. In time it was, our daughters are a delight, but not a part of this story, probably not any future story. In time they will make their own life choices and follow their own dreams, maybe they will write their own story. Maybe not.This chapter of our lives could end here, but there is one part that should probably be included, because it was another case of Laura’s take on a central part of the original story that started all of this.In ‘The Belly Riders’ the central character trains for and takes part in Carnival. Laura had determined that I too should belly ride in public. Of course Laura didn’t tell me her plan, she just asked me to start doing yoga as part of my daily workout. At the time I was focussed on another invention and simply agreed without wondering why, if Laura wanted it, I would do it. So I did, we did, Laura joined in.
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