Born in 1949

Back in 1949, we were still living in a country of queues and ration books, but there was this tangible sense of the world finally waking up again. You’d walk down the high street and, if you were lucky, find a bit of extra sugar for a victory sponge, though clothes were only just coming off the ration that March. I remember the sheer excitement of that blistering summer—hottest on record for years—when we all crowded into the local fleapit to see *The Third Man*.

That zither theme by Anton Karas seemed to hum from every wireless in the street. If you had a television, and most didn't, you were huddled around a tiny screen to watch Muffin the Mule, or perhaps catching the news about the devalued pound or the start of NATO over a pint of mild. The kids were obsessed with the new Eagle comic and flicking cigarette cards in the gutter, while the older ones were humming "Lavender Blue" and dreaming of the new Austin A70.

It was a time of smoggy mornings and the smell of coal fires, but honestly, there was a warmth to it that had nothing to do with the weather—a feeling that we’d made it through.