That Time

Mrs B has agreed to sell poppies; she had plonked the goods on a table and it all fell into place, ready for a photo.

It is remarkable that this appeal has lasted so well, starting in 1921.  I've just realised (again, probably) that the poem, "In Flanders Fields" had something of a jingoistic last verse, as if the poppies and their fertilising soil had not shown the author (Lt Col John McCrae) the awfulness and futility of war, not even one in which the machines for killing had overtaken their operators' methods of waging war – and in which the tactic of attrition from a static position was clearly outdated and ineffective.

But lasted it has, probably the easiest bit of charity collection around, even in these jaded times.