It has now become a daily event, the inevitable “when I was young, we…” line.
I used to listen with boredom, thinly disguised as respect, when the older generation relayed tales of their daily lives.
Now I fully appreciate the looks of disdain my own children give me as I settle comfortably into the boring old codger’s seat.
I am just old enough to have witnessed a small proportion of the hardships endured by my grandparents’ generation.
My grandfather would cut up squares of newspaper in lieu of toilet roll, before my grandmother upgraded to the infamous Izal medicated tracing paper, which seemed designed to ensure lasting discomfort.
He also kept an Anderson shelter in his garden, used more as a shed by my time, although I thought it marvellous as I rampaged around in army surplus camouflage from the Hastings shop on Bohemia Road.
They had an outside toilet too, something we still have in a modernised form, though thankfully we missed the weekly family bath in a tin tub by the fire – one piece of history best left alone.
In turn, I now find myself recounting stories of my own youth.
Being handed a pound note to pop to the shop for 20 John Player Specials and returning with a generous handful of change, aged nine or 10, seems almost unimaginable now. A scribbled note to the shopkeeper was all the authority required.
With only three television channels until 1982, there was little else to occupy us.
My children are baffled that I used to carry a 10p coin in my shoe for emergency phone calls.
The emergency rarely came, but the discomfort certainly did.
Talking of smoking draws even more disbelief. It was once perfectly acceptable to smoke on trains, even planes.
Journeys to Cornwall were spent in smoke-filled carriages where your eyes would water from the lack of ventilation.
By the time you reached Penzance, you smelt like a bonfire, but so did everyone else, so nobody minded.
Train travel itself felt far less rigid. My friend Michael and I regularly travelled to London and, to save money, would simply bunk the fare.
If a conductor appeared, we would hide, first in the toilets until that trick wore thin, then in an enclosed first-class compartment.
On one occasion, we avoided paying altogether by handing over 10 B&H, a tub of margarine and a jar of marmite. It all seemed simpler, and far less serious.
And yes, old codger that I am, having finished this column I might just put the kettle on, warm some milk on the stove and enjoy a quiet Horlicks - for old times’ sake.
- Brett Ellis is a Gen X-er.
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