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Although I was born only a few months before the war began, I have vivid memories of it. The shelters and the sandbagged houses. Barrage balloons, and searchlights criss-crossing the sky. The hot shrapnel from the guns of the planes, which we would pick up in the garden after a dogfight. Wounded soldiers in their light blue hospital uniform and prisoners of war with a coloured patch on the back of their coat.

The squanderbug — an evil looking cartoon insect with swastikas all over its body which tried to tempt you into wasting things — frightened me. But even more frightening was the wail of the air raid siren…

…which meant the flying bombs, the “doodlebugs,” were on their way. The appalling, heart stopping silence as we counted the seconds after the engine cut out and waited for the thing to hit the ground. If you heard the explosion, you knew it wasn’t for you — this time.

And all the time the news, the news, the news on the radio. The war dominated everything. I firmly believed that when it was over the announcer would say “This is London. The war is over…there will be no more news!”

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