Born in 1945

Back in 1945, there was this incredible, dizzying sense that we’d finally come out from under a heavy shadow, though life was still a long way from fancy. If you walked down the high street, you’d see "Welcome Home" banners fluttering over bomb sites, and it felt like the whole country was fueled by nothing but weak tea and sheer relief. I remember we were all humming Vera Lynn’s "White Cliffs of Dover" while queuing for a bit of whale meat or a few precious ounces of butter—rationing actually got tighter after the war, you see!

We’d huddle round the wireless to hear the BBC Home Service, and when the news of VE Day broke, the pubs ran dry in hours. We didn’t have the telly back then, of course—the BBC had shut it down for the duration and wouldn’t flick the switch back on until '46—so we spent our sixpences at the cinema watching *Brief Encounter*, reaching for our handkerchiefs in the dark. It was a freezing start to the year; I remember the Great Frost where the milk froze solid in the bottles on the doorstep.

But despite the cold and the ruins, there was such spirit. The kids were out in the rubble playing with wooden hoops or scavenged shrapnel, and for the first time in years, the streetlights stayed on after dark. It was a grey world, perhaps, but we were starting to see the colour again.