Considering that I was born in London 2 months and 19 days after the first German bombs dropped there in WW2, and had untold nights of being scooped up by my mother, and bundled down an air raid shelter, and can vaguely recall burning my fingers picking up hot shrapnel in the streets of East London as a toddler, I don’t feel that my childhood was ruined at all.
Even though my parents were constantly fighting, culminating in their divorce in the late fifties, I was still getting looked after and receiving 3 squares per day.
I gradually slid into mild misanthropy around 20-21, but I was no longer a child by then, so I’ve no complaints.
