Born in 1953

Back in 1953, there was a proper sense that the grey, weary years of the war were finally lifting, though you still had to tuck your ration book in your pocket for your sugar and sweets. If you’d nipped into the pub back then, you’d have found us huddled around a tiny Bush television set with a circular screen, nursing a lukewarm mild and watching the Coronation in black and white. Most of the street had crowded into one front room to see it; honestly, the atmosphere was electric despite the rain.

We were all humming Perry Como’s "Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes" while the kids outside were obsessed with their tin clockwork toys or kicking a heavy leather football about the cobbles. It was the year Hillary and Tenzing conquered Everest, which felt like we were top of the world again. We’d pop to the cinema to see *Genevieve* or maybe *The Robe*, and if you were lucky, you’d finish the night with a feast of spam fritters or a proper dripping toast.

It was a simpler time—no central heating, just the coal fire spitting in the grate—but there was a real warmth to it all.