We were sitting in a cafe, drinking tea, when an elderly gentleman rose from the table behind and approached me, proffering the prettiest flower, white with pink edges. He said it didn't fit in his pocket, and that it would suit me better. He was with a lady, presumably his wife, and I was with my fiancé and my family, so nothing about the situation struck me as being sinister, but I couldn't help but remember Prelude to a Kiss, particularly when the gentleman took my hand and gave it a friendly squeeze (Spud later said something similar had crossed his mind). He had been an explosive expert in the war and had been awarded seven medals. It was very sweet of him to think of me. I thanked him profusely and wished him well as he went on his way. It was a touching moment.