Born in 1940

Back in 1940, life was a bit of a scramble, but there was a proper sense of being in it together, wasn’t there? If you’d nipped into the local for a pint of mild—provided the pumps hadn't run dry—you’d have heard Vera Lynn’s "We’ll Meet Again" crackling from every wireless in the street. There was no telly to speak of, mind; the BBC had pulled the plug on the flickering screens at Alexandra Palace the year before, so we all gathered round the radio for the shipping forecast and the news from the front.

I remember the summer was a real scorcher, a proper blue-sky beauty, which felt so strange while we watched the vapour trails of the Spitfires and Hurricanes twisting overhead during the Battle of Britain. Living on rations meant you played a tactical game with your butter and sugar credits, and a dinner of Woolton Pie or a sausage that was mostly breadcrumbs was the norm—though a bag of chips wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper still tasted like a royal feast. The kids were out in the bomb sites, playing "Commandos" with wooden sticks, or swapping bits of shrapnel like they were precious jewels while *The Wizard of Oz* was still the big wonder down at the Gaumont.

It was a grey, whistly sort of time, but hearts were remarkably warm.