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This year, I officially became a septuagenarian and I am proud to be so! I was born at the end of September 1939 in a village in Leicestershire as the middle child of three. My father was Cockney and mother is a Geordie, so I have something in common with crofter. Although I was born at the beginning of WW2, I don’t really remember very much about the war, as we were only troubled by bombers on one occasion. My husband-to-be had a very different experience, since he spent most nights of the first 3 to 4 years of his life sleeping in an air-raid shelter in the back garden of his home on Tyneside. The dockside of Newcastle was a popular target for bombing raids.
Like many people of our generation, I had a fairly carefree childhood; living in a close-knit village community, playing without fear anywhere we chose and quite often getting into mischief. As for food, we had a decent-sized garden and Mum worked very hard providing us with vegetables all year round. I also recall raising chickens as a valuable source of eggs and -- when they were past laying – we had a steady supply of lovely plump chickens destined for the pot. This was no time for sentiment. As a result, we never went hungry. Although this was an Age before Refrigeration, food was never wasted, but would appear and reappear several times in various forms, eventually ending up in a mash to be fed to the chickens and the food chain would begin the cycle once again. In similar fashion, surplus eggs were pickled and used for baking whenever the hens were “off the lay”.