Weekend Warrior

Tripping the light fantastic in army surplus boots; trench warfare becomes a paintball pratfall frenzy every weekend when the rigid carapace of pin-striped suits is merrily discarded. Live ammunition you would die for, laser sights and mortar; your very own Tiger Tank parked in the driveway; the sweetest dreams of glory, guts and slaughter cradle you in sleep. A wife who would wait like a frightened lamb; bloodless fingers twisting tear stained tissue, face taut with stress; waiting the lonely potential widow’s wait for the dreadful telegram to dead-fall on the mat. Keeping the death-watch vigil for the cemetery team; ribbons and chunks of meaningless metal pinned to a hero’s still chest; a Union Jack draped on the casket; dear God in Heaven, what sort of man are you to dream of things such as these?