It’s funny that they still play dormitory games.”Fave place to get married?”"Church.”"Worst?”"Toilet.” Again, hysterics.I turn the page of my book. All clutch empty polystyrene McDonald’s cartons.One is quite pretty in a scrawny sort of way Wide-apart oval eyes, cheekbones, ratty hair Kate Moss on a (very) bad hair day. Another is butch – all scowl and shoulders, short curly hair, trainers, anorak Sucking at a Coke It’s these last two who do all the talking. The rest look on and giggle, glassy-eyed courtiers.”What’s your fave car then?” asks Anorak.Kate plays with her polystyrene carton “Rolls-Royce.”"Worst car?”"Mini,” – raucous laughter They look so tough.

The pink-violet hue of bad skin shows through foundation several shades too dark and several millimetres too thick. Leather thongs twisted around theirwrists, bitten nails, the obligatory maroon polish chipped down to the centres. I try to stare both as much and as little as I would at anyone onthe Tube.Their clothes are, naturally, black Regulation leggings; flashes of PVC or nylon here and there. The series, which is the property of Thames Television, might be hired at less than commercial rates; if not, money should be raised to enable schools to hire the equipment necessary and the 26 episodes.We cannot permit the two generations that have been fortunate enough to escape war to remain in blissful ignorance of what our fathers fought for, of the horrors of which man is capable and the sufferings of millions, all of which took place in the name of “politics”.The BBC is to be congratulated on showing what was originally a product of commercial television and to have done so on the 50th anniversary of the end of Hitler’s war. But BBC2 is a channel for the middle class and the middle-aged; the message should beshown to thosewhose knowledge of the most terrible events of this century is, at best, sketchy..

I’m deep in a book when they get on – six teenage girls. The train’s waiting at Kennington, almost empty, but I know from the moment the first DM is planted on the dirty rubber floor that they’re going to come and sit by me, and they do. Why, why, why? Is it my pathetically wet, fake-fur coat? Is it the novel on my lap, screaming out “snob”?

Or are they just post-pubescent sharks smelling blood? Can they tell I’m the sort of person who used, a long time ago, to turn sweaty at the sight of them?
They throw themselves on to seats on either side of me, so I’m surrounded They don’t do anything specific They know they don’t have to And avoiding eye contact is never the answer. Much of it comes as a surprise to my children, who are in their twenties and beyond; for those who are younger there could be no better introduction to contemporary history than to sit through the 1,170 minutes of the series.Earlier, I used the word “encourage”, for I doubt whether you have the powers to oblige schools that come within your ambit to show the series – indeed any television series – even at an interval of, say, four years.