As I write this, the sky outside is a beautiful clear blue and the sun is shining - I'm glad those who are standing at the Cenotaph in London or at the many, many War Memorials large and small around the country are not enduring bitter cold or driving rain as many will be elderly and will find it a harrowing experience. 
I am sitting alone in my little study and I can hear the service playing on M's television.  I shall also be able to hear the bugle calls from our local service which takes place on the main road not far from us - if H wasn't already out I would go to the service.  Not because I have lost anyone close in war, but because remembrance was a duty impressed on us all as children by my father who never missed the service.  Most of us born immediately after the WW2 grew up with the expectation and duty of remembrance and we grew up with old soldiers and tales of their wartime exploits - my uncle, amusingly went AWOL before embarking to fight in Burma and had to be collected by Redcaps but redeemed himself and went on to be mentioned in dispatches. These days we are again mourning young lives lost in foreign lands. To commit two minutes of silence in memory once a year out of our hectic lives seems very little to give.