important people in Britain to a celebration of the Russian Revolution at the Russian Embassy in London on November 7th and asked me to go with him in my mother’s place. I did have a little black frock, but as they didn’t make women’s shoes my size during the war, had to wear men’s shoes. Luckily the other guests were so crowded together no-one could see my feet.

Long tables were covered with snacks of all kinds caviar, quail’s eggs, pickled cucumbers... and everything alcoholic you can imagine. As fast as a guest emptied his or her glass one of the slightly sinister looking members of the Embassy staff would fill it up.

Of course, I was with a group of scientists, the Huxleys and sundry eminent professors, but scientists don’t talk about science at parties and they were not scintillating. Just behind me, back to back, stood the very young and beautiful Michael Redgrave with his glamorous theatrical friends and I was sorely tempted to turn round, but it would have been rude, so I didn’t. Never, before or since, have I seen a crowd of people, the most important people in Britain and me, drink so much so fast.

On our way back to the station Professor Mott was sick in the taxi and had to be taken home, so I was left sitting in the entrance to the Café Royal, a venue I had never aspired to visit.

Spikey sent us marvellous monthly parcels. Rationing was even stricter just after the war than during the fighting and the tins of ham, the rich fruit cakes, the packets of cheese and interesting biscuits were very welcome. One of the cheeses was sweet and we were never sure that we liked it, so had to keep nibbling to find out until it was all gone. She also sent us copies of The New Yorker which we read from cover to cover.

My middle brother, John, had now been demobbed. He had quarrelled with his sergeant about the right way to make doughnuts so had been posted from the 6th Air Arm and sent to India thus missing the slaughter and instead spending a very pleasant time shooting tigers with minor princes. As he had spent the previous three years training at the school for chefs and waiters before working at the Dorchester Hotel in London I expect he was right about the doughnuts. Anyway, it probably saved his life.

Now he joined B.O.A.C. as a steward and flew backwards and forwards to USA and Canada, each time stocking up the plane’s refrigerator with butter and meat to bring home. No wonder his mince pies tasted better than mine that Christmas.