Our stories are the tellers of us.

This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

There was no quick grief for Andrew because he had been so slowly lost. First from my heart, then from my mind, and only finally from my life.

WWII was, without exaggeration, the biggest event in all of human history, and it is still within living memory.

Would we be the heroes or the cowards of the piece? Would we follow orders or stick to our principles, if those two things ever conflicted? Would we be the brave ones who still found the capacity for love - and for laughter - even while we were terrified?

Our stories are the tellers of us.

Studying psychology is fun because you're always looking for the same things I think a writer should be looking for, which is the story behind the story.