AS Remembrance Sunday and Armistice Day come around again, I prepare to do my duty as a journalist and cover the many events that take place around them: heads bowed with the at the war memorial in Boscawen Street for a plaintive bugle call; the military parade through the centre of Truro, followed by the Royal British Legion service at Truro Cathedral. Perhaps I will see the poppy drop from the main tower for the first time - I have heard it to be an extremely moving experience.

I feel very strongly that those who died in service for the nation should be remembered. Many had no choice but to fight, in the age of conscription; in the early days of the First World War, young men were sold a lie that they’d be home by Christmas, in a bid to get the troops into the battlefields, where they froze and perished in appalling conditions, if not on the end of a bayonet.

Thanks to their efforts, and those who fought bravely against fascism in the Second World War, we live freely today. For this, they deserve our eternal gratitude, which is why I am more than happy to wear a poppy. I am especially fond of the pin produced by the Royal British Legion, which sits on my lapel all year round.

However, I confess I occasionally struggle with the politicisation of the poppy. Every year, there seems to be an unseemly rush for TV presenters and reality show participants (like Strictly Come Dancing) to be the first to sport a poppy, to avoid the brickbats that might fly their way if they are late to the party.

While red poppies reflect the blooms that grew in Flanders fields post-1918, other colours are available: black to commemorate the people of colour who made the ultimate sacrifice, and purple to reflect the animals that died in collected conflicts.

Not everyone approves of these; there have been almighty rows over whether it is acceptable to wear a white poppy, which were first produced in 1933 by members of the Co-operative Women's Guild. Many had lost family and friends in the First World War, and wanted to say: “Never again.” Today, the Peace Pledge Union’s white poppies stand to remember all victims of war, of all nationalities, including refugees and victims of colonial conflicts; while also challenging war and making a commitment to peace. I can hardly think of a more appropriate message in today’s turbulent times.

Since 2016 there has also been a Pride poppy, juxtaposing the red variety with LBGTQIA+ colours to represent those of diverse genders and sexualities who died for the cause. This is supported by the Royal British Legion, which produced a badge version in 2024, and yet public opinion is sharply divided, with some arguing it politicises remembrance and introduces “woke virtue signalling”.

But surely if anything politicises remembrance, it’s one set of people telling another they should be observing a deeply personal event in a way others deem acceptable – eg. the prominent wearing of a poppy, of a certain colour, by an early enough date. In my view, this flies in the face of all the things the fallen were fighting for.

Even if I don’t wear a poppy, I will be thinking of them and observing the silence at 11am on Armistice Day. Yes, it’s important to remember those men who died, but forgive me if I don’t feel the need to wear this on my sleeve/lapel.

This is traditionally a difficult time for my family, not all of whom agree with the idea of wearing poppies or attending events. This is less out of disrespect for those who died, and more out of a firm belief that we should not be imbuing conflict with any kind of nostalgia or glory.

I accept that they have different views to me, and I say: live and let live. I won’t get in your way if you stay out of mine.

And if people don’t feel it necessary to remember the dead, well, that’s their choice. Thanks to the fallen, we live in a free society. I suspect there are more than enough of us to make up for the minority that don’t recognise that.

Nevertheless, I was pleased to see that remembrance lives on in the next generation. In July, Penair School students won a prestigious prize for their work exploring the lives (and deaths) or those who fought, some of whom came home only to lose their lives in tragic mining accidents like that at Levant. As part of their prize, they will mark Armistice Day at the Cenotaph in London’s Whitehall.

So maybe I will see you on the cobbles of Boscawen Street, in the sacred space of Truro Cathedral or maybe just in the yoghurt aisle of Tesco – any time, anywhere is good for sparing a thought for those who never came home. May they rest in peace.