Born in 1957

Back in 1957, Britain was finally shedding the grey skin of the post-war years, though you’d still see the odd bomb site being reclaimed by willowherb. I remember it being a cracking summer; we spent those long, dusty August evenings out on the pavement playing conkers or kicking a ball until the streetlights flickered on. If you walked down any terraced street on a Sunday, you’d hear the tinny theme of *The Billy Cotton Band Show* drifting through open windows, right alongside the smell of a proper roast with plenty of dripping.

We were all huddled around tiny 14-inch Bush television sets, marveling at *The Sky at Night* for the first time or laughing at *The Army Game*. Money was tight but things felt new; Harold Macmillan told us we’d "never had it so good," and you almost believed him when you saw the first hand-held "Sputnik" beeping across the headlines. I saved my pennies to see *The Bridge on the River Kwai* at the Odeon, and you couldn't nip to the milk bar without hearing Paul Anka’s "Diana" on the jukebox.

It was a year of frothy coffee, the last of the steam trains puffing through the valleys, and the simple joy of a Mackintosh’s Quality Street. It wasn't perfect, but Lord, it was ours.