The story of a little refugee (TT June04 p55)

During World War Two, I was a small child with long, blond, curly hair. My earliest memory is of being held up by my mother to the window of the air-raid shelter, dug in the back garden of our bungalow, to watch the searchlights criss-crossing the sky during the Great Auchenbothie Blitz. I have since decided that this first memory must be false since I am pretty certain that air-raid shelters would not have had windows.