Geoff, from Birmingham, and me from London, had been turned into South Wales boys by four years of evacuation. In the little village near Pontypridd where we shared a billet; we also shared the paper round.

Geoff’s birthday, a few weeks before mine, was a great financial success, for many of his customers on the round tipped him and he brought home the huges sum of nearly £2. I was envious and, as my own birthday approached, I began to prime my customers, so that they would remember it.

Instead of balancing the paper in the letterbox and then giving it a heavy thump with my hand to see how far up the hallway I could make it land, I began to knock on the door and present the newspaper in person.

“Morning, Mrs Jones! How are you? I’m looking forward to next Tuesday. It’s my birthday, you know.”

“Hello, Mrs Richards. Here you are. It’s my birthday the day after tomorrow!” I nursed the street in this unsubtle way like a candidate at election time and when the great day came I couldn’t wait to rake in the tips.

“Morning, Mrs Jones. It’s my birthday today, you know! I’m 12!” But Mrs Jones, like the rest of them, took the paper in her hands and, wide eyes riveted to the front page, hurried back inside, calling to her husband and shutting the front door without a word to me. Twelve years old today I might be, but Mrs Jones and the world had more important things to think about. All the newspapers in my sack had the same one-word headline, in thick black type inches high: “INVASION!”

It was D-Day, June 6, and I didn’t make a penny.