Born in 1941

Back in 1941, life was a strange old mix of terror and the most incredible togetherness you could imagine. You have to remember, we were right in the thick of it; you’d spend your evenings huddled by the wireless, listening to the crackle of Big Ben’s chimes before the news, or perhaps humming along to Vera Lynn singing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover,’ which seemed to be playing from every open window. There was no telly to speak of—the BBC had shut down the service for the duration—so we made our own fun.

I remember the winter was a proper brute, bitter cold with snow drifting high against the blackout shutters, and you’d be shivering in your woollens because coal was sparse. We lived on National Wheatmeal bread and whatever we could coax out of the ‘Dig for Victory’ vegetable patch, though a precious sweet ration would occasionally buy you a few ounces of pear drops if you were lucky. Down at the cinema, everyone was flocking to see *49th Parallel*, and for a few pence, you’d lose yourself in the flickering dark, momentarily forgetting the drone of the Luftwaffe overhead.

Kids would be out in the craters the next morning, hunting for jagged bits of shrapnel like they were pieces of silver. It was a hard graft, no doubt, but there was a warmth in the local pub that you just don't find anymore—a sense that as long as we had a pint of mild and each other, we’d see it through.