to sound like one of those Pythonesque gravel-eating Yorkshiremen trying to outdo each other by describing the levels of deprivation they endured as impoverished children, but when I was a kid in the early 1950s we didn’t have a toaster in our house. We still had a corrugated-iron Anderson shelter in the garden left over from the war, though, and leather-capped coalmen still delivered the black stuff door-to-door. And we had bread, so we were not denied the pleasures of
