Like most of us , I've been remembering people this weekend .
Family stories of wartime . Grandparents , uncles and aunts memories of being evacuated to Perth or to Wales or being stuck in Rawalpindi , hoping that the Japanese could be halted in Burma , at least . Of being hauled over the coals for not laying one's WAAF uniform out neatly enough for kit inspection . Of Aunt Gladys being machine gunned by a low flying German plane in Cornwall and having to fling herself on the road . Of Aunt Grace's cousin's son in a POW camp in Italy .
Of seeing John Gielgud in Macbeth in Glasgow , before going off to fire watch for the night . Of Arctic convoys and Malta convoys and of pears costing a shilling each . Of lunch time concerts and of hearing Churchill telling the nation that Singapore had fallen . Of the introduction of soap rationing and the absence of barrow boys . Of Polish pilots and call up papers . Of Dunkirk and malaria and whale meat .
My father's sketch of himself in his new uniform , ready for anything .... though not , perhaps , being torpedoed
His mother writing that she'd seen a neighbour's son going up the road on his motorbike , with a sailor riding pillion ... and her sudden wild hope that it was him . And this photo of my mother's parents at the outbreak of the Second World War , their faces showing that they knew just what awaited them ... and their teenage sons