I’m sitting on a sofa in what could be my Grandmothers house from many years ago. I study the dated decor but notice the infinite cleanliness of the house which is the product of 50 years marriage. I am sitting next to a very elderly lady with a perfectly formed perm. She has pools of tears welling from warm but sad eyes which have seen 80 years of emotion. Eyes which have witnessed love, happiness and tragedy. Her dignity and pride is trying to keep back her tears because her late husbands memory has been taken from her in the night. His war medals were lovingly polished and kept as the only memory she had of him, and they have now been snatched from her whilst she lay sleeping. Each piece of metal he had proudly worn on remembrance days reminded them both of how he had put his life forward to defend his young soldier friends and his country, those young men who died in front of him, those memories he would try to forget and could certainly never utter a word of.