After watching two episodes of an American TV series called Perry Mason 'Ossie' Oster of prefab number seventeen was inspired to apply for a job as a trainee common law clerk at King Sized & Withering Fees, a firm of Solicitors and Commissioners for All Kinds of Oaths . Kids from the estate who went to East Hill gravitated towards jobs in garages and butchers' shops, while kids who went to Weymouth House Technical School acquired an aversion for anything that was 'technical' and tried to became Admiralty or insurance clerks. The high-flying grammar school son of the slick salesman on the corner prefab started to make some discrete inquiries about vacancies for Viceroys in the remaining colonial dependencies and openings on the board of Coutts' Bank. Those of an adventurous temperament responded to advertisements placed in the press by the Hong Kong Police Department (GCE English and 5'7" height were key requirements.)
There had once been a time when young prefab dwellers were tactfully advised to keep their prefab dwelling residence a closely guarded secret when applying for an 'office type' job. That was before Gary Bollard of Woodhedge Road made his astonishing breakthrough. Quite out of the blue he was offered the prestigious post (albeit temporary) of 'roving arts correspondent' with the Walcot & Bath Arts and Literary Festival. (His talents as a ukulele player swung the interviewing panel his way.) Once embarked on this glittering career the phrase "walls of the mind" was never far from Gary's lips. He would explain that - while East Berliners had recently found themselves imprisoned by a real wall which divided their city - residents of our prefab estate were prone to imprison themselves behind a self-made wall of class segregation. While his 'roving arts correspondent' post lasted for five all too brief Spring and Summer months, Gary's upbeat temperament was a source of inspiration to us all. He had an unshakeable conviction that what he called "human agency" could overcome the most formidable of social barriers. This conviction stayed with him for the rest of his working life. (Or in Gary's case for the rest of his non-working life, since he has ended up setting a new Twiverton record in the number of years spent signing on at the Ministry of Labour.)
At around the same time as Gary was roving around the Walcot & Bath art world a resident of prefab number seventeen was trying to break into journalism. Despite being a school friend of Dawk 'the print' Goodall - the son of a wheeler dealer in the local media industry - his hoped-for interview with the Bath & Wilting failed to materialise. Plan A had to be abandoned, and Plan B - joining the merchant navy - was soon abandoned as well. (His four GCE passes did not include maths, and this was a key requirement.) Fortunately Plan C - being given a time slot at the paint-peeling pockmarked Ministry of Labour building in Avon Street - was their for the taking.
Back in the eighteenth century recurring plagues of cholera had afflicted Avon Street. It was therefore seen as an ideal location for a Ministry of Labour office. Plan C did not fail, and the young resident of prefab number seventeen was soon starting work as a 'trainee manager' with the Devizes branch of the Tread On Simpson footware chain. After being infected with the itchy feet syndrome (a perennial problem in this line of work) he signed up for a ten pound passage to Australia.