Every London borough hosts a Remembrance event, maybe several.
I picked a borough at random from my jamjar and went to theirs.
The parade lines up outside the museum and awaits the signal. Everyone important's here, all the civic dignitaries apart from those who've been delegated to officiate at the borough's three other memorials. The mayor is bedecked in red robes, a golden chain of office and a tricorn hat, a get-up she wouldn't have dreamed of wearing when she first put herself up for election ten years ago. Accompanying her is the Mayor's chaplain, her official mace bearer and the Representative Deputy Lieutenant, all of whom have been able to wait inside the building until the last minute rather than shivering out on the pavement. The Scouts and the British Legion have brought flags.
On a given signal a steward from Achilleus Security attempts to stop the traffic. The first three cars ignore his hand gesture but a Toyota driver eventually relents and thus enjoys a front row seat. Her sacrifice is the cue for the pipe band to start up, resplendent in their Freedom tartan and fresh from yesterday's warm up outside the library. Their opening drumroll is so evocative that it causes one spectator to bring his heels suddenly to attention, instinctively outing himself as a former member of the military. And with a bagpipe skirl the parade then sets off.
Behind the Caledonians come the British Legion in their green berets, then the civic dignitaries, then the other councillors who've elected to be here. Only a handful of them have gowned up. The bulk of the parade is padded out by the Scouts, particularly the subgroups of Cubs and Beavers, all doing their duty under the supervision of an appropriate number of adults. Five St John Ambulance volunteers follow behind, then a huddle of fully-kitted firemen freshly decanted from an engine down the street. I count 100 participants all told, which is both impressive for a civic event in 2024 and pitiful for a borough with a population equal to that of Hull or Sunderland.
Although multiple police officers are present it's the team from Achilleus Security who oversee the parade's progress, shepherding everyone past the launderette and across the crossroads. Their numbered tabards are colour-coded by superiority, and so many stewards are present that a superfluous dozen are bringing up the rear masquerading as participants. Everyone on the pavement stops to watch the parade as it passes, the majority raising a smartphone to capture an image or a spool of video to share with friends. Even shopkeepers emerge to see what's brought bagpipes to their manor, and the dog at number 554 rests its paws on the garden wall to watch everything with intent. Only ten minutes of traffic will be disadvantaged.
At the big gates the parade troops down to the Town Hall where further dignitaries are waiting on the front steps. The Mayor & Co hide away inside again while everyone else, including assorted spectators, files past the sign saying Marketing Suite This Way towards the war memorial. Someone has thoughtfully covered over the usual hoarding with the image of a field of sunlit poppies. Orders of service are duly handed out - 12 pages, full colour - and the clock on the tower duly ticks round.
A mixed crowd has turned up to bear witness to remembrance. Those with standing in the community take a seat at the front while others of all ages stand reverently behind. A tattooed man has turned up in a black Lest We Forget hoodie liberally emblazoned with poppies on the back. One family are only here because their Beaver took part earlier, and they'll face a losing battle to stop her fidgeting as the service progresses. An elderly gentleman in a brown anorak and tweed cap looks like he may be the only person here who remembers either of the World Wars we're here to remember. The bloke beside me in the skinny jeans has two very discreet lapel badges whose symbols suggest either very right wing or very left wing sympathies - I didn't get close enough to tell. Oh hang on, here comes the Mayor.
The ceremony begins with a few words from the pastor, read into a microphone which either isn't turned on whose speaker hasn't been turned up sufficiently. Thankfully his voice carries but most of those who follow won't be so audible. Barry from the British Legion leads us into what ought to be the Two Minute Silence, but which due to an accident of timing is both three minutes early and one minute too short. Eleven o'clock actually strikes as the Mayor takes to the mike, quietly, her words not in the booklet so quite difficult to follow. The official timekeeper, stood at the back with her eyes on her phone, is starting to look agitated.
Taking his cue from distant nods the pastor tries again and launches us into the proper Two Minute Silence, just as the rest of the country is ending theirs. Local seagulls conveniently cease squawking but the traffic on the main road continues unabated, including one particularly loud double decker bus. Small Beaver is too young to realise why she should be keeping quiet and nearly manages. But remembrance takes place regardless, the borough's fallen and the global death toll all silently reflected upon until the Last Post jolts us all, here as everywhere... just a couple of minutes late.
The laying of wreaths is done in strict order starting with the Mayor and Deputy Lieutenant, then the elected, then the religious and finally everyone else. The local MP has a relatively lowly place in the civic pecking order. The Fire Brigade and British Legion have smart logos in the centre of their wreaths, as do the Labour and Conservative offerings, whereas the Veterans and Humanists have made do with a handwritten card. The final wreathlayer to step up is tabard wearer M324 on behalf of Achilleus Security, a private company ostensibly only here to keep us all safe but instead fully entwined into proceedings.
There's still plenty more ceremony to go, specifically pages 5 to 11 in the booklet. It's mainly poems, all the usual stuff about Flanders Field along with more modern selections, each read by someone who isn't quite loud enough. I wasn't aware that Mayor's Consort was now a thing but apparently they're sisters. The brass band delivers Jerusalem with aplomb and we collectively fail to drown them out. The National Anthem goes better, but I swear at least one of the dignitaries is mouthing Queen when it should be King. Then off they process for whatever they do in the Town Hall afterwards, and off we go back to our everyday lives secured by Those We Lost.
Similar ceremonies will have played out at memorials in boroughs across London, and will continue to play out this morning as some people choose to be silent again. But it's not about where you remember, only that the message is remembered, year in year out lest we forget.
