Peter Bromhead: Closet intellectual opens up

Cartoon / Peter Bromhead

I've recently been enlisted into a number of forums addressing audiences on subjects ranging from "the future of books" to "existentialism in modern consumer society". Both are highfalutin' topics I know precious little about and my involvement is a mystery to those aware of my scholarly limitations.

However, I'm not without fans. One attendee recently wrote back describing me as "as nothing more than a trite, closet intellectual - covering up my ignorance with a veneer of feeble humour". While this was reasonably accurate, I was a bit miffed that they left "fossilised blitz kid"' out of their summing up. Having survived being blown-up and machine-gunned by the Luftwaffe, I feel rather entitled to this modest accolade.

Like members of the armed services, I feel it's unwise to dwell too much on war adventures - partly because it's boring, and partly because there are few lessons learned from the experience.

However, two recent events have jogged my fog-bound memory into recalling how ghastly life was in Britain in 1940.

A visit to Christchurch was the first reminder. Seeing streets and buildings reduced to rubble left me with the familiar visual numbness experienced when viewing the destruction of city landmarks after an air raid.

I feel particularly sympathetic towards the Canterbury population who are now enduring the same nervy edginess that the Blitz produced - forever wondering when the next big one is going to strike.

Unlike earthquakes, at least the Luftwaffe were predictable.

Being German, they turned up regularly at 8pm, raiding until late in the night.

The second reminder of urban destruction came after viewing the interesting documentary, Blitz Street, now screening on television.

This examination of Luftwaffe weaponry, such as high-explosive bombs and incendiary devices, reminds me that I led a charmed life as a child, with such stuff raining down nightly, thanks to the fact that I lived in a street adjacent to the prime target - the Portsmouth naval dockyard.

Viewing the controlled ignition of a magnesium incendiary bomb, spewing white fire everywhere, left me chillingly recalling that I once kept the very same German device - found, unexploded, after an air raid - hidden under my mattress as a souvenir, before it was discovered by my mother and removed by a bomb disposal unit, horrified at my foolishness.

If it had accidentally blown up, I might have been slightly more scorched than I was by those recent pithy comments from that adoring fan, questioning my intellectual capacity.