Stimuli.

The writer's group meets in the British Legion. I don't know much about the Legion not having come from a military family or having any military friends. We meet in the Board Room which is small, airless, no window or ventilation of any sort. Heaven help us if it ever gets warm outside. A large table takes up almost the whole of the room, just space for chairs around it and a glass fronted cabinet with dusty plastic flower arrangements ready for celebrations. Last week there were ten of us and that's by no means the full membership. 

To be matey I went for a drink at the bar afterwards. I think that might be part of the deal; we get the room at a tiny rent then spend money at the bar. I was amazed at the price of a single malt. So cheap! 

The two hours round the table upstairs had been pleasant and full of laughter. A couple of the women have a keen sense of humour and once the laughing started it was impossible to stop. The exercise was to write an obituary of one of the people featured in a series of artistic photographs. Occasionally the subject was nude. Much hilarity. Plenty of  creative thinking.  

Mostly it was the men who went for a drink, just me and one other woman represented the other half and she turned out to work for the MoD. I suppose it was inevitable that the men were also ex-forces; probably how we got the room. For the hour or so we stayed there were lots of reminiscences. About bases in foreign lands, the food, eccentric characters and camaraderie. The good life.

I went home and wrote five quick, angry poems about war and the military. Shan't read them out next week!