I was born on a door that my father and his brother had hastily removed from upstairs and taken to the basement of our house in Tunbridge Wells during an air raid in WWII. I don't have any pictures of the house since Herman Goering ensured that it no longer exists. I did once attempt to at least find the street, but by then Mum and Dad couldn't remember exactly where it was so that was a failure.
Apparently my delivery was rapid, which my Dad always ascribed to the air raid. "Nothing like a few bombs nearby to shift the little bugger!" he was fond of saying before being hospitalised again by Mum!
