Gradually working my way through at a stately pace.
Thank you! All paces are equally appreciated
On "A False Dawn: Memories of the General Election of 1928 (January – February 1928)":
I remember writing this one. The idea to use Portsmouth came after reading an interview with the architectural and cultural writer Owen Hatherley, whose grandparents lived in Portsmouth and were active communists. He has such a charming way of describing how unlikely these 'communists' were that it struck me as an excellent jmp off point to write a little more about some unassuming people doing their thing amongst all the top movers and shakers in Westminster.
My Mum was a child in Portsmouth from the early thirties through to the end of the war and has mentioned the docks in her reminiscences - especially when they were being bombed and around the lead-up to D-Day (though well off limits by then, of course)
Considering how prominent a part WWII played in my education as a child growing up in Britain in the first years of the millennium, it came as something of a shock to me to realise a bit later on in life that I have absolutely no second-hand knowledge of the war through family and the like. I was born 53 years after the war ended, but being taught some new thing about British wartime life every school year made it seem a lot closer in time. My grandparents were born during the war, and growing up in the Welsh valleys they didn't have so much of a hairy time of it. And their parents worked in protected industries, so there are no accoutns of military service passed down either.
My grandad did always say that his first memory as a very young child was seeing the bombs coming down over Swansea, but we never knew whether he was just making it up to entertain us (not improbable). On the whole the war is this strange gap in my inherited memory which I only realyl became aware of when I grew up and met other people with family war histories. It's entirely alien to me in quite a strange way I feel.
A bit too young (and from a lower-middle class shopkeeping family) to have seen Jessie Stephens, however.
Jessie Stephens was a fascianting character. Domestic servant who couldn't train as a teacher for want of money; became a suffragette and was the youngest memebr of the WSPU delegtion to Lloyd George in 1912 aged only 18/19. I'm glad you're taking the time to go through things like this, Bullfilter: it reminds me of eveything and everyone I included ages ago and totally forgot about
An appropriate response!
(And not pure hyperbole. Churchill based his real-life strike breaking force on the organisation of the Fascists. And as I mentioned over when Talkin Turkey, he had quite a soft spot in the 1920s for Mussolini and his succeses against the Left.)
They had their shop (which of course they lived above) bombed out. She was evacuated at one point, but it turned out the woman who took her and a number of other children in was running a knocking shop and using the ration cards (but nothing beyond that re the kids). So she went back.
This really is like something from a story I'd've had to have read in primary school. Fantastic recollections, thank you for sharing
Went to her ‘home’ air raid shelter rather than a closer one a number of her school friends went to (and urged her to come with them) when a raid began on the walk home from school. Friends‘ shelter got a direct hit, end of story. A different decision and no Bullfilter to write AARs 80 or so years later
And in the moment no way of knowing either way, of course! Amazing looking back like this at all those 'There but for the grace of God' moments.
Was there for all the D-Day hoopla. Loved seeing the B-17s going overhead on their way to give the other side a return serve
Great way of putting it
That's quite intense! Amazing what sort of chances people take with things.
It's funny because my first reaction to this was "We've seen a lot of this this past year, too". Made me remember just how much of the UK's initial response to covid was shrouded very explicitly in a 'Blitz spirit'. Doesn't take long at all to realise just how gapingly inappropriate the metaphor is...