It is the 1940's week end here in our little town and the shops (and tomorrow the shop assistants) are all dressed accordingly. Many of the windows are covered with sticky paper in criss-cross patterns, flags hang everywhere and some people have dressed their shop windows with a variety of things 1940-ish.
Tomorrow couples, the men in army, navy and air-force officer's uniforms and the ladies in 'fashionable' silk dresses and those little fox furs which you draped round your neck so that the teeth clamped on the brush of the fox to hold the thing together (ugh) will stroll round the market square. Jeeps will run up and down the market square; sometimes there is the odd gun or even a tank and there is a general air of the end of the war.
At coffee this morning we were chatting about the war, which many of us can remember, and how our parents strove to keep the fear and worry at bay. One of our 'gang' - well into her nineties, talked of working in the Post Office during the war and of having to deliver telegrams, often holding the worst possible news. Then we began to talk of the food - about food like bananas being missing, about chocolate being rationed (one of our gang is almost a chocoholic), about what we had to eat.
The upshot is that friend E has decided to hold a 1940's lunch in her home on Sunday - even when he heard what we are having, the farmer agreed to come too. So wartime lunch, courtesy of E, will be held at 1pm on Sunday and the principal food on the menu will be Spam Fritters!