It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke

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      What am I even thinking? I scold myself. I don’t even want a man; I’m happy with the way things are and a man would complicate things. Besides that, I’m sure millions of soldiers didn’t give their lives so that I could lust after attractive Frenchmen. I think my existence should be more meaningful than that. Then I think about what my existence actually is and can’t imagine millions of men would have given their lives for that either. A routine of work, bargain-hunting, romcoms and David the weatherman. But I have brought up a son, who has got into university, a small voice in my head says.

      ‘You know, during the Second World War, soldiers passed the Thiepval memorial and paid their respect to their fallen fathers.’ Olivier has slipped into the empty seat beside me.

      ‘Gosh, it’s unimaginable. What they were going through, and to see that on top. I don’t know …’ I reply, no longer surprised by Olivier’s sharing of random contemplations.

      ‘I’m sorry, I know I keep bothering you with my war trivia but I don’t always get much interaction from the tourists. Some, not all, seem to want to say they’ve seen the sights rather than actually absorbing the history. They want an Ypres fridge magnet or the Thiepval shopping tote but not always the knowledge, you know? That is sad to me.’

      I nod in silent agreement. His passion for war history intrigues me. I’ve not met many men with such rich interests. Since being in school, most of the men I’d met were into the same things: football, computer games, and pictures of topless women, with regular trips of enrichment to the pub thrown in of course. Cardboard cut-out-and-keep activities for a limited range of stereotypically masculine interests.

      Different was drawing me in.