Born in 1944

Back in 1944, life was a strange old mix of dread and a peculiar kind of togetherness. If you wandered down to the local back then, you’d likely find us nursing a watery half-pint of "National" ale, squinting through the blackout curtains while the wireless hummed in the corner. Everyone was humming "We'll Meet Again," but it was Glenn Miller’s "Chattanooga Choo Choo" that really got the blood pumping when the GIs were around with their lucky strikes and nylon stockings.

Television? Blimey, the BBC had pulled the plug on that at the start of the war, so we got our magic at the kinema—usually a double bill of *Gaslight* or *Henry V* to keep the spirits up. I remember that bitter January frost clearly, huddling over a meagre coal fire while mum worked wonders with dried eggs and a tin of Spam.

Then came June, and the news of the D-Day landings felt like the whole world held its breath at once. Kids didn't have much, just chasing each other through the bombsites with wooden planes or playing marbles in the gutter, completely unbothered by the doodlebugs rattling overhead. It was a grey, weary time, but Lord, the tea never tasted better.