Churchill yells from the wall, ”Let’s go forward together!”
I look across the table. The Victoria Sponge is behind us. On closer inspection it’s dry and too heavy, rather like the days that are memorised here, in glamourised nostalgia.

I was born a little after the war and all I recall is the sweets still rationed and the bombsites; the sad, damp wall-paper flapping from shattered bedroom walls in the wind.

My newsfeed bleeps from my phone. Missiles aimed at Syria.

Back then Pearl Harbour was bombed.

The Chattanooga Choo Choo just keeps choo-chooing on.

Let’s stay at the tea table and just keep moving around. I’ll be the Hatter. You pour the tea. Be ‘mother’.

People have got to stop killing each other.

We’ll meet again.
Don’t know where.
Don’t know when.