This morning in surgery I speak to a man who has lived in our town all his life. I ask him how much he remembers of the war. Quite a lot, it would seem. His memory is of an immensely happy and exciting time, except for the rationing, which he found annoying, especially because you could never get any more than the tiniest slivers of chocolate .
He told me of one extraordinary night in 1941 when there was an air raid. His family eschewed the shelters, preferring to take their chances in their own home. His grandmother had situated herself in a doorway, believing this to be the safest place in the house, seated in her beloved rocking chair, while the front and back doors were wedged open "to let the blast through the house without damaging it", apparently. Then a landmine had fallen in the back garden, and blown grannie straight out of the front door. When the dust settled, she was found on the other side of the road, unharmed and still sitting in her rocking chair which had been blown out with her.
Now that's what I call a war story.
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