otherwise determinedly cheerful memoirs recall a series of gloomy images and episodes: an appalling London fog that ‘was almost combustible, so thick was it with soft-coal smoke’, lingering for almost a week ‘until a kind of claustrophobia threatened to drive everyone stir-crazy’; the only outdoor illumination coming from ‘dim and inadequate street lamps’; the ‘severe limitation on food’; and a hotel in Cardiff where Reagan in the small hours ran out of shillings for the gas fire and ‘finished the night wrapped in my overcoat’. At Elstree itself he was also unimpressed by the contrast between
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