Born in 1943

Back in 1943, life felt like living in a bit of a grey smudge, but we certainly knew how to keep the fire flickering. If you’d wandered into a local back then, you’d have found us nursing a watery pint of ‘Victory Ale’—the strength was terrible, mind—while the wireless in the corner crackled with the *Brains Trust* or Tommy Handley’s nonsense on *ITMA*. There was no telly to speak of, of course; the BBC had shut down the television service the moment the balloon went up, so we made our own fun.

You’d see the nippers out in the bomb sites, playing ‘Commandos’ with wooden sticks, or swapping precious American comics they’d scrounged from the GIs who were suddenly everywhere with their Hershey bars and nylon stockings. We were all sick to death of dried eggs and National Wheatmeal bread—that 'National Loaf' was like a house brick—but if you could get a seat at the cinema to see *The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp*, you forgot the rationing for an afternoon. I still remember the winter being bitter, huddled round a single coal, humming ‘Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer’ while the searchlights scanned a violet sky.

It was a hard slog, but we were all in it together, wasn't it?