THIS Remembrance Day, I found myself saddened by more than the occasion itself.

The crass hijacking of a solemn, poignant moment in Britain’s collective consciousness left me uncomfortable.

Among the dignified millions reflecting on the horrors of war were those determined to use the poppy and all it represents for political and personal point scoring.

Seemingly desperate to avoid the ever-growing poppy police, David Cameron’s office digitally altered photographs to include a poppy on his lapel.

The much-beleaguered Jeremy Corbyn attended a Remembrance service only to have his bowing technique painfully scrutinised and roundly criticised, finding himself heckled on The Sun’s front page despite swerving a VIP lunch to chat to veterans.

Unasked and unwanted, the morally abhorrent Britain First took it upon themselves to stand guard over young poppy sellers in what they call ‘Islamified’ areas.

In Middlesbrough, philanthropist and failed mayoral candidate Andy Preston demanded compulsory attendance at the Cenotaph for all.

At the same time, legions of well-meaning individuals were looking to their neighbours, checking to see if they were getting it right before reporting them to social media – or, as it’s known in my house, the Ministry of Propaganda.

No matter where I looked, there were people clamouring over themselves to tell others they were somehow getting it wrong.

As if the lack of a visible poppy or non-attendance a public event could measure accurately a person and their thoughts.

As if those who fought to the death for freedom of thought and deed would approve of compulsory remembrance.

My grandparents lived and fought through WWII and they emerged dignified, private people who valued freedom of expression.

I’ll remember them, their lessons and their sacrifices throughout my life, whether I’m at a Cenotaph on a cold autumn morning or elsewhere.

Remembrance Sunday offers the opportunity to remember, to reflect and to think about wars gone by and conflicts still stealing lives across the world.

It is not and should never be a platform for political point scoring, divisive nationalism or showboating.

It will be a sad day when the poignant symbol of the poppy is appropriated and exploited to the point it obscures all it was designed to respect.

I hope instead we remember the stories behind the symbol, keep them in heart and mind, reflect however we feel is appropriate and respectfully allow others to do the same.

My grandmother was a teenager in Amsterdam when the Nazis took the city. She watched Hitler speak and lived through unimaginable scenes of horror.

A diary entry of hers read: “You must be strong to be weak, the rich are poor because they want more and forget about what counts.

“I watched TV and saw people getting water from the snow, it reminded me of 1943-45.

“We had no water, heating, gas or light.

“We got snow from the gutter to melt for a drink, we scrounged around the bins of the barracks for potato peelings.

“We fuelled a tin with wood from chopped up doors and heated two cups of snow water a time, with added peelings.

“The babies had swollen stomachs and stick-like arms and legs, Rietje tried to feed Paul, her breasts like dried up prunes.

“I watched the Gestapo execute 12 Dutch men who refused to shoot, they were thrown in a bin wagon.

“Sometimes we ran for our life, that’s why I’m grateful life is good to me.”