By Lauren Pritchard
When I was younger, I would spend hours sat with my Nan and Grandad as they told me captivating stories about growing up during the war, what trouble my mum got in to as a teen or the hardship of living in a small one-bed flat with seven siblings and a dog.
I’d go around every Thursday for my dinner and spend the majority of the meal questioning them on their lives and their favourite memories. I don’t think I (or either of them) ever got to eat anything even remotely warm, as I relentlessly quizzed them until my mum picked me up.
It wasn’t that their stories were particularly ground-breaking, but they were authentic. Told with passion and weaved with humour and spirit, they captured my attention far more than a colouring book or the latest Nintendo game. Perhaps most importantly, they stuck with me. Even today, twenty years later, I can recite almost word for word the story of my Nan emerging from an air-raid shelter during WW2 and discovering her family home had been heartbreakingly flattened.