Two minutes

Usually, on Remembrance Sunday I like to be in one of two places, in church being hypocritical or at home. Where I don't like to be is outside, as one is always worried that during the two minute silence some child will kick off and one will be forced - forced mind you - to feed him nettles to shut him up.

So when I found myself in the supermarket at quarter to eleven, I was tense. But I need not have worried. They had seconded the surly youth on customer services onto the tannoy and every five minutes we were reminded, in no uncertain terms, that staff would stop whatever they were doing at eleven o' clock and observe a two minute silence.

And they did. The whole supermarket ground to a half. The only sound was the gentle hiss of the freezers. It was like the opening chapter of the Midwich Cookoos, with trolleys. Quite moving really and genuinely pleasant to see that, instead of my sitting at home and worrying about misbehaviour or lack of respect, actually being out in public - one saw none.

Obviously as I screeched my way out of the car park later I nearly bonneted the local priest as he led the procession from the war memorial back to the church, but the dozy sod should have been looking where he was going.