WAR and talk of war always scares the living daylights out of me. I remember the last one and the school teacher telling us that in the case of an air raid we should get under the desks, because the air raid shelters were not quite ready.

She also told us to always carry our gas masks.

Funnily enough, I still have mine, in its square box, enclosed in the cover my mum made for it, on my window sill.

And I can remember my father telling my brother Tom, who was keen on enlisting, ‘not to be so bloody daft’.

My dad had been wounded four times before he was 19, in the First World War.

He joined up under age and because he was an orphan, housed in the Cheshire Homes, nobody checked.

But it made no difference, our Tom still joined the Royal Marine Commandos and we were all so proud of him.

Wars solve nothing, for after all the fighting, all the carnage and young lives lost, the disputes fought for still end up being decided round a conference table. That’s where they should have gone in the first place, then perhaps all those young lives could have been saved.

Is it a male thing — a bit like an arguments in pubs, where instead of discussing the problem they say ‘Let’s get this sorted outside’?

I can’t help feeling that if all the heads of countries were women, perhaps there wouldn’t be all this strife.

We women would discuss it quietly and sensibly — then we would go on to talk about the really important things, like shoes and what’s new on the fashion scene.

  • Is it really September? Where has the longed-for summer gone? Was it ever here?

That new white safari suit is still hanging in the wardrobe, just waiting, yearning, and longing for those roasting sunny days; but it’s too late now.

I’m just hoping that it will still fit me next year — now, I don’t only get older by the year, I also get bigger!