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At the end of the street where I lived in West Norwood towards the end of the war, there was a large green bin, which we called the pig bin. An appeal had gone out for everyone to save food scraps and leftovers for use as "pig swill" - food for pigs. It was my job - and one I hated - to take the newspaper parcels of scraps to the pig bin. I was seven and very small, so sometimes the parcel got a bit heavy and I was always afraid that I would drop it on the way along the road.

One Sunday morning, I set off, accompanied by my five-year-old brother; the sun was shining and, for once, I was not too bothered by carrying the rubbish. With horror, I heard the whining noise of a doodle-bug. I was a shy little girl and nervous of disturbing people I didn't know, so I shouted to my brother, "Run, Bobby, run to Mrs. Coombes!" Of course, Mrs. Coombes happened to live in the last house in the road! We ran, and ran - it seemed such a long way off. Suddenly, my Auntie Kath was upon us, swooping us up in her arms and rushing us down the path to the nearest front door, where she banged loudly. The door opened and a woman hauled us inside, when my brother and I were immediately pushed into the Morrison shelter under the table. In the confusion the parcel of pig swill had gone flying, and was spread all over the pavement, but somehow nobody cared - except me. I was very embarrassed at having made such a mess.

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