The number of centenarians in Britain has more than quadrupled in the past 30 years, according to new figures. Harold Smalley, 99, former Far East prisoner of war, retired cobbler, all-round gentleman and resident of Whitwick, celebrates his 100th birthday this month
I'm 100 on October 25. We're having a party and that's nice and all that, but I don't want a big fuss. I get up in the morning and I get on with my day and that's that. That's all I do. What's my secret? I'm not sure I have one.
I'm quite relaxed about things. I don't get het up about much, although I don't like those Islamic State terrorists beheading innocent people. Why would anyone do that? It's bloody ridiculous.
I don't drink or smoke. The local bobby caught me smoking when I was 13 and he dragged me and my mate right back to school and told the head teacher. That was the first – and last – cigarette I had. I'm pleased about that, though. Smoking is not good for you.
I broke my wrist last Christmas. We were going out for dinner at a local pub. My wife took the steps down to the pub entrance, I went down the slope. I saw her and thought: "If I get a move on, I can beat her here." Ha, ha. And what happened? I slipped, didn't I. Broke my wrist in two places. It was a bad 'un. Took the ambulance two hours to get to me. I was in agony. I'm all right now though. It's all healed. I've got my strength back.
I use a stick now, to walk about. I've done that since the fall. My family say it's safer, so I do it for them, really. I think I'd be all right without one.
I play dominoes once a week at Coalville Labour Club. I don't drink when I get there. I might have two halves. But that's it. No more than that. How do I get there? I drive there. I've got a Ford KA. I bet I've had it seven years and I've only done about 25,000 miles. I'm a good driver. Ask my wife, Val. She'd rather me drive than her.
I only want to drive around Whitwick and Coalville. I wouldn't want to drive around a big city I didn't know. I haven't driven in Leicester for years. I could probably do it, but I wouldn't like it. If I have to go anywhere like that, I use my bus pass.
I have porridge for breakfast every morning. Porridge with a bit of jam in it, or raisins. I have three good meals a day. I have a good wife to look after me, you see. That's the secret.
I have lots of fruit and veg– but not much meat. I do like a good fry-up on a Saturday morning, though. I do the fry-up. I do it all in lard. It tastes better.
I've never had any bad health. I had a bit of a growth on my chest a few years ago. I went to the hospital and they said they didn't like the look of it, so they cut it off. I went back a week later and they said: "Sorry about that Mr Smalley – we took it off, but there was nothing wrong with it.'' I've still got a scar there.
I have dodgy knees now. They let me down a bit. But I put a stretch bandage on 'em and I get out. What I really miss is doing my garden. I used to like that. It's a bit too much for me these days.
I'm one of 10 children. They're all dead now. I'm the last one. My dad was a miner. When I left school at 14 he said to me: "Don't do what I've done, son. Don't go down the pit. Get another job.''
So I went to Loughborough to make cranes and then I worked as a cobbler in Anstey. I biked it to Anstey, from Coalville, every day, there and back. I was as fit as a butcher's dog.
They called me up in 1940. I was 25. I didn't want to go, really, but what could I do? They sent us, the Leicesters, to Penang, Malaysia. We should never have been there.
We were trained to fight with bayonets. The Japs were coming down from Thailand in tanks. We came out with our little bayonets and there they were. We didn't stand a chance. It was ridiculous. We had a young officer with us. He looked terrified. "Just run," he said. "Run for your lives." I'm not a religious man but I prayed for my life that day.
I was captured in Singapore in 1942 and put in prisoner of war camp. I worked on the Burma railway. I did that all day, every day, 12, 13 hours, non-stop, barefoot, no shoes, no clothes, just a bloody napkin, that's all. They gave us two cups of rice a day. That was it. I like rice, though. I still have rice now. I like a nice curry and rice and chilli con carne.
Death was all around you. If you got poorly, that was it. It was rare anyone survived an illness or injury. I used to lie on my bamboo bed in the hut at night, and by the light of the moon I could see the Allied planes flying over to bomb Japan.
One night, one of those planes dropped a bomb on our camp. We were in the Nong Pladuk camp. It wiped out all the Dutch PoWs – and the hut next to us. Five soldiers from the Leicestershire Regiment died that night, killed by a bomb from one of our planes.
I was lucky. The debris and shrapnel from that bomb tore though our hut. But we survived.
There was no point trying to escape. Where would we go? How would we survive? Mind you, a couple of lads tried it. They were caught and had their heads chopped off. That tended to put people off, too.
They were cruel, the Japs. One of them slapped me in the face. He'd told me to clean some machinery, so I put some oil on a rag and started to clean. I shouldn't have used the oil, it turned out. So he hit me. There were days, in those camps, when you just never thought it would stop. I distinctly remember thinking, "When will this ever end? Is this it for the rest of my life?''
They marched us from railway prisoner of war camps, through Thailand, for miles and miles, to an old airport. They set us to work building a new air strip. I saw out the rest of the war there.
When they liberated us, we went out in a Japanese jeep to a bar and got blind drunk. I hadn't had an alcoholic drink for four years. I was so sick that night. And then I noticed, in a pile of vomit, was a tape worm. I'd thrown it up. If I hadn't thrown it up, it would have eaten me away. Have I been drunk since then? I don't think I have. There's no need, is there?
In the days after liberation, we had nothing. No food. No clothes. Nothing, really. The American Air Force dropped big wooden crates full of supplies for us. One of our lads – he'd survived the railways, the PoW camps, the march through the jungle to the airport, and all the work he had to do there, finally, he was a free man – ran outside when they were dropping the crates and he was hit by one. It killed him. Imagine that. It was such a waste.
I have never been as happy as the day, in 1945, when I set foot on English soil when our ship docked in Southampton. All the ships were in the harbour, parping their horns, people waving flags. I'll never forget that.
I used to have nightmares when I first came back from the war, but you can't carry on like that. You have to put it behind you. You can't let it bother you, take over your life. I was lucky to come through it. I didn't want it to ruin my life.
I came home and got a job as a cobbler in Whitwick. I didn't really speak about the war. I didn't think anyone was interested.
I only started talking about it a few years ago. Some people were interested, after all. I was a bit surprised, to be honest. I guess there aren't many of us left today. These stories are a bit rare, aren't they?