No prefab on our estate has an aura quite like the aura of prefab number forty-eight. This is because one of the residents of prefab number forty-eight is Miss Ann Brown-Sloane.
When a member of our religious studies class stumbled across the Biblical line about not "coveting your neighbour's donkey" 'Tubby' Lard motioned towards the unknowing Ann and said: "But sir, the passage in my copy of Exodus does not say donkey." This was unforgiveable.
While Ann Brown-Sloane resides in a six hundred square foot low status abode like the rest of us, hers is bathed in sultry, sweltering, glitzy, pulse-racing, Californian-style glamour.
When Phil (now nicknamed 'Dark Horse') Perkins was seen silhouetted in Ann's bedroom window tongues were bound to wag. Phil had once been a mainstay of the Saint Michael Is No Angel Sunday School before undergoing a crisis of faith. "The core doctrines are not literal truths" he told Dai 'Tolstoy' Lectic of prefab number one. They have to be seen as metaphors. For example the idea of the the Virgin Birth is a metaphor to hide embarrassment over sex, and the Resurrection is a metaphor which masks our fear of death."
It was The Shock which brought Phil's crisis of faith to an ultimate point of crisis. An ever-dutiful son, Phil decied to spring clean his prefab when his parents gone to look around the new John Lewis store in Bristol city centre. With his own bedroom drawer neatly tidied he decided to tidy up his parents' drawers as well. This was how he came across a mysterious package that was wrapped up in musty yellowing pages of the Bath & Wilting evening paper. (How many dark and grissly secrets are wrapped up in musty yellowing pages of the Bath & Wilting!) Phil - who would soon be 'Dark Horse' - took a fleeting peek at its contents.
Twenty minutes later Phil was to be seen sobbing on the kerbstone in Woodhedge Road. This popular kerbstone stands just a few feet from the edge of Ann Brown-Sloane's bushy back garden. One of the silver-hubbed wheels of the frenetically driven Co-operative Mobile Shop Van ("share number 24419!") glanced one of his out-stretched legs. Hearing the screech of the ever-frenetically driven Co-op van Ann raced out of prefab and took the distraught Phil under her ever-fragrant wing. She sat him down in her sitting-room and helped him regain his composure by tuning her wireless to the Light Programme and listening to a repeat of Hancock's Half Hour.
"Who would have thought my own parents would ever have carried on like that!" said Phil as his tear-drenched face tumbled into the lap of Ann's warm embrace. (He would later recall falling into her lap "like a leaf from a tree" - his favourite line from W.B.Yeats.)
"Crikey!" said Ann - and "Crikey!" again - as the true gravity of what Phil had found in the carefully wrapped package in his parents' bottom drawer began to sink in.

"Stone me, what a life!" (Tony Hancock).

The Shock that had exploded "like a grenade in a greenhouse." (This was how Ann put it when she spoke to her friend Jane Lewis at prefab number thirteen a few hours later.) Jane told Ann it could have been worse. "Just think of The Shock of John Ruskin after he discovered that the angelic love of his life had pubic hairs." "Or the shock of romantic poets like Keats and Shelley when they discovered that their enchanted girl friend goddeses went to the lavatory to do a number two." Phil would remember the severe reprimand he had given to Roland Bollard in thekitchen of prefab number four. "Every kid on this estate", said Roland, "can be seen as a symbolic representation of a thousand encounters of the carnal kind." Now the stark visceral truth of Roland's words had been driven home by the discovery of a packet of contraceptives carefully concealed inside a Bath & Wilting inside a bottom drawer.
Nowadays hardly a day goes by without Phil ('Dark Horse') Perkins either popping into Ann Brown-Sloane's prefab for a few moments of fragrant solace or chatting to her on the kerbstone outside her sweetly scented garden. When Ann is nowhere to be seen he idles away the hours by staring into a small plastic gadget which reveals, with each unedifying click of its button, a new photograph of women's breasts. Such were the depths to which an unknown number of young residents of 1950s prefab estates had been known to sink.