Times (UK): I spent my childhood bedtimes waiting for war. As the fading evening light turned the roses on my pink curtains into sinister faces, I would wonder why my father had not dug us an underground bunker in the garden. Because one day, I reasoned, someone was going to push the red button, and a mushroom cloud would billow over the horizon and suffocate us in its deadly, iconic grip; and thanks to my stupidly optimistic parents we’d be the only unbunkered family on the street. Children of …