● ANOTHER year, another remembrance season has come to an end. Soon it will be the biggest anniversary of all… the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War.

This is all the more reason then why it’s vital to pay homage to the really dedicated folk who almost single-handedly keep the flame of remembrance alive all year round.

It goes without saying that the Royal British Legion has admirably performed this task since the 1920s, but there are other organisations that honour the fallen, in particular the Western Front Association.

Steve Moorhouse is the chairman of the Worcestershire and Herefordshire branch and he regularly keeps me informed about activities and meetings, which are currently being held at Callow End Village Hall as the usual venue at Cherry Orchard Centre, Worcester, is being refurbished.

He tells me that the local branch helped to finance Martin Middlebrook’s recently published book on the war dead from Twyning, a village just over the county border in Gloucestershire.

This work has been met with great enthusiasm, which is very welcome, as a major part of the proceeds are going to charity.

Such labouring behind the scenes is just one reason why we should salute those dedicated people who remain true to poet John McCrae’s exhortation to keep faith with the fallen.

● I’VE always carried a penknife – oh yes, and a length of string too. I suppose it’s a throwback to the days when Uncle George insisted that these were the only items that really mattered and should always be to hand.

Later on, I bought a sheath knife, which was habitually worn on my belt.

It came in pretty handy when I landed a part-time job on a farm at the age of 14 – there were always things that needed trimming, slicing, levering and so on.

Fast-forward four decades. Last weekend, I was casually cleaning my penknife when my father-in-law observed that I was probably safe from arrest as the blade was less than four inches long.

Ah yes, I said, but that’s only the smallest in my collection. I was also the proud owner of a particularly impressive Swiss Army model.

I laughed and then paused. Come to think of it, wouldn’t I make a nice soft target for the attentions of the police?

Of course, if I was apprehended at some stage in the future, my detention would be no different to the experiences of other quite obviously law-abiding citizens.

There must now be many elderly people who have been given the third degree at airports in the name of security and even-handedness, as if a white-haired granny might really be a suicide bomber.

Anyway, I’ll be holed up on the riverbank when they come looking for me. And on this occasion, I will be taken alive. It’s an age thing.