Born in 1942

Back in 1942, life felt like a strange mixture of grey endurance and sudden, sparky moments of joy. If you stepped out of the pub back then, you’d be fumbling in a proper pea-souper of a blackout, listening for the drone of a Wellington bomber overhead while clutching your gas mask case. We didn’t have the telly to keep us company—the BBC had shut down the television service for the duration—so we huddled round the wireless for *ITMA* or went to the flickers to see *Mrs.

Miniver*. You couldn't help but hum "White Christmas" as it drifted from every open window, though the real news was far grimmer, with everyone talking about the fall of Singapore or the bravery of the boys at El Alamein. Food was a bit of a challenge, mind; you’d trade your soul for a proper egg, and "National Wheatmeal" bread was as grey as the London sky.

Kids were everywhere, playing among the bombsites with scrap metal and wooden hoops, dreaming of the day they’d taste a real banana again. Yet, despite the dried eggs and the ration books, there was a warmth to it—the way a pint of mild tasted better when shared in a crowded room full of smoke and shared purpose.