Born in 1948

Back in 1948, the world felt like it was finally shaking off the grey and finding its feet again, though you’d still have been clutching your ration book for a bit of bacon or a single egg. It was a cracking year for the spirit, honestly. I remember everyone huddled around the wireless—those lucky few with a television were glued to the flickers of the London Olympics, watching Fanny Blankers-Koen tear up the track at Wembley.

We were all whistling *A Tree in the Meadow* on our way to the pictures to see Laurence Olivier’s *Hamlet*, though some preferred the technicolor dream of *The Red Shoes*. It wasn't all glamour, mind; the "Big Freeze" of the previous year was still a chilly memory, but we had the birth of the NHS to talk about over a lukewarm mild or a glass of Mackeson’s. If you were a lad, you were likely out in the bomb sites—still plenty of those about—playing with a tattered football or a precious set of lead soldiers.

We were hungry for life, even if we were mostly eating snoek and whale meat, and there was this quiet, proud hum in the air because the Windrush had just docked, changing the face of the high street forever. It was a lean time, but Lord, it felt like the start of something.