Medals

I am a little afraid that in my last and this mumble I may be straying from the true path of inconsequential rubbish that I always try to maintain. However I came across my father's medals recently (these are not them, he had more) and realised that the shadow of the bullet is very long.

The bomb and its ilk, however renamed, kill many and although I lived and worked in the Gulf for many years I am less likely to stroll casually around there as previously.
How pleasant it would be if the world stopped going to hell in a handbasket at such great speed and we had a little brotherly love. Or indeed any other form of love, for the more nerdish (although this implies a range of knowledge that I cannot aspire to) could perhaps wear this delightful tee shirt in the hope of spreading some of the love left over from the 1960s, portions of which I can remember.
However I guess I will need to see some strange sights down on our pig farm before the chance of peace throughout the world could come into being.