Born in 1945

If you were born in 1945, you came into the world at its great turning. The war in Europe ended in May and there were scenes in the streets of every Australian city — strangers embracing on Collins Street, impromptu singing outside the town hall, pubs running out of beer by midday. Japan's surrender in August was the moment that stopped time: the wireless announced it and people poured out of their houses, banging pots, kissing neighbours, weeping openly on the footpath.

The boys began coming home on troopships — thinner, quieter, some carrying things in their eyes they wouldn't talk about for decades. Rationing was still in place for a while yet, but the emergency feeling had gone. New South Wales had already started talking about what to build next.

There was a sense of exhausted, grateful energy — the country had been tested and had held, and now it wanted to get on with things. Families planted gardens not for victory but for pleasure. The Saturday arvo at the cricket ground felt different, lighter.

Curtin had died in July, worn out by the weight of it all, and Chifley took over — a decent, steady, pipe-smoking man from Bathurst who spoke about building a better Australia for ordinary people. That felt like exactly the right thing.