Born in 1951

Back in 1951, you’d have felt the world finally shifting from greyscale into a bit of Technicolor, even if the rationing books were still tucked in the kitchen drawer. It was the year of the Festival of Britain, and I’ll never forget the sight of that Skylon structure pointing at the clouds on the South Bank; it felt like we’d finally stepped out of the shadow of the war. If you popped into the local, you’d likely be nursing a lukewarm mild or a stout, chatting about the king’s health or the "Great Smog" that wasn't far off.

We were all humming Nat King Cole’s "Too Young," though the real excitement was huddled around the wireless for *The Archers*, which had just started its run. If you were lucky enough to have a telly with a screen the size of a postage stamp, you’d be watching *What's My Line?* or the kids would be enthralled by *Muffin the Mule*.

It was a proper bracing year, too—snow at Easter and a damp summer, but we didn't care much when we were in the cinema watching *The African Queen*. Kids were out in the bomb sites playing with tin whistles and spinning tops, coming home for a bit of dripping on toast or a treat of Whale meat—though we try to forget that bit! It was a simpler, slower time, perhaps, but there was a real sense that things were looking up.