One September Sunday I walked along London’s South Bank. There were street performers and stalls. I continued and strolled over the Millennium Bridge to St. Paul’s. All very casual until I walked up to the statue made in honour of all those brave air raid wardens who lost their lives during the Second World War London bombings. Whop. The word “blitz” slammed out alone at the top of the statue plaque.

Sudden adrenaline rushed with that stomach free-fall sensation. I thought of my dead Blitz, choked and walked along crying, trembling and sad. Not one single day passes without me wishing my dogs were buried. Inside my head Blitz now has his little resting place. To me the monument has another special hero.
 
I walked on. I always had a silly idea that one day I’d bring Saxon back to England and walk with him down the Mall from Trafalgar Square to the railings outside Buckingham Palace. He’d have loved it. He was a startling looking boy, lion-like, always upbeat and very boisterous. I felt so sad walking down there without him.