I was born in London’s Docklands in May 1940. Harassed by Hitler’s bombs, our family of six was shunted from address to address four times in the course of the hostilities, writes John Cornwell.

I started school amidst a dazed younger generation, afflicted by evacuations, Blitz jitters, nits, impetigo and sweet rationing. By age nine, I was a difficult child, as one kindly Irish nun put it, a “bold boy!”

I bunked off the 11-plus and joined a secondary modern behind a wire fence on the Ilford High Road. Teachers were mostly “emergency-trained” ex-servicemen who knuckled our skulls. But my year’s form teacher was the voluptuous Miss Roma de Ropa, big hair, violet eyes.