People are always asking where the old man got his big career break and was able to acquire the
coveted skills of furnace bricklaying. This happened when he was working in the Black Country in Brierley Hill. It was from there that he landed a job with a Rotterdam-based company called Derro Enamels. Without the likes of Derro Enamels the Long Post-War Consumer Boom (which floated on oceans of refrigerators and washing-machines) would never have left port!
When the old man heads off to the Continent with his American movie-style hat, American movie-style suit, Orson Wells-style loosened tie and bulky trowel-filled travel bag, the old man cuts a distinctive worker aristocrat figure. When he returns to the prefab the place becomes choc-o-bloc with bottles of brandy and boxes of Dutch cigars. The phrase "Jack is back!" is whispered in saloon bars by canny characters who are on the look out for a free pint.
It is not too long before the Derro Enamels money-fuelled euphoria subsides and the worker aristocrat image looks a little frayed at the edges. When the old man is directing enamel furnace operations abroad he does not simply get a wage: his living expenses are paid as well! When he is waiting at home to be called for his next job he no wages at all - not a cent. Derro Enamels expect him to become a luftmensch - someone who lives on air alone - and were it not for mum's prolific budgeting skills we would soon be heading for Skintsville. In Skintsville everyone is either "on the floor", about to be "on the floor", or recovering from being "on the floor." When the Secret History of the British Working-Class is finally published its title will be "On The Floor (OTF)."
On evenings with a harvest moon when the owl in Silk-Farr's Wood is hooting eerily away unexpected events are prone to happen. On one such evening the old man returned from The Green Tree with a homeless pub pianist in tow. The pianist had uttered the "OTF" phrase, and this phrase can be guaranteed to open the old man's empathic heart. Whenever I see a harvest moon or an owl gives off an eerie hoot - especially if a chill wind is whistling outside - thoughts go back to the homeless pub pianist the old man brought home from The Green Tree. Has this sad- eyed maestro managed to find a secure sofa berth for the night or has his luck finally run out with him ending up "on the floor?"

'Tubby' Lard likes to come out with things which take all of us aback. For example the other night he pulled up on his bike and said: "Do none of you realise that the life you lead on this prefab estate is risibly claustrophobic!"
Gary Bollard of prefab number four was clearly needled by this. "Just what do you expect! There are caravan sites which are bigger and have more facilities than this place!"
"And caravan sites have lots of different people who are constantly coming and going" said Len Sullivan (prefab number thirty-three.) "There is not much coming and going around here. Almost everyone who moved into these prefabs back in the late 1940s is still here today. And what makes things worse is the fact that other people - especially those who live up in the Admiralty council houses in Camelot Green - steer well clear of us."
"That could be because they kow about the prefabs' asbestos-lined walls" suggested Adrian Denton. (The resident of prefab number thirty-six had been coughing away for a couple of weeks.) "They might not be steering clear of the estate because of us."
"Well they can steer clear of us for good" said Jane Lewis of prefab number thirteen. "That is their problem. In Gloucestershire they say 'You only miss the water when the well is dry'. Well, the well we are drinking from is not dry at all. It is full to the brim with our families and friends. 'People like 'Tubby' Lard are going to miss this 'risible claustrophobic' place like mad one day."
(Jane ignored the sniggers which followed her "Well the well").
"It is alright for you, Jane" someone passing by said. "You don't have to live next door to the Swileys!"
"But Jane is right!" said Adrian Denton. (Adrian was in a buoyant mood despite nursing the latest black eye that his old man, the grumpy bus conductor known as Hawkeye, had given him). "Just think of all the games we play and the laughs we have here."
"And just think of all the people who are laughing at us!" said 'Tubby' Lard. "What you forget is that those who do not live in prefabs like to cheer themselves up by making fun of people who do!"
"One of the hard truths about our small prefab world is that it is too inward looking" said 'Ossie' Oster from prefab number seventeen. We hardly ever come across anyone who lives in a real house and goes to a real school - the ones with tennis courts and libraries filled with books on Greek and Latin. Do we travel to Athens and Rome? Do we meet lots of smart people? No - we
fritter our summer holidays away by sitting on top of coalhouse roofs and let our brains rust away."
"It's all summed up by Mark 4: 25" said Len Sullivan. (The resident of prefab number thirty-three enjoyed showing off the fruits of learning from his Saint Michael Is No Angel Sunday School days.)

'For he that hath, to him shall be given: and he that hath not, from him shall be taken even that which he hath.'

What the author of these words sid was to completely suss out the way social structures like ours works."
"For heaven's sake, give it a rest and wake up!" (Ann Brown-Sloane had a knack of having the final say.) "Jane Lewis sems to be the only one around here who really understands just how stupendously rich we all are. We have homes to go to, we have loads of friends!" ("Well, you do!" whispered Len). "We really belong. We live in lovely places with mod. cons. and gardens. We enjoy the kind of freedom which people laid down their lives for. What we should be doing is thanking our lucky stars and grabbing hold of the feast of life!"
Len Sulivan muttered something about grabbing hold of the feast who was sat just a few feet away from him. But the debate was over. There was even a round of applause for Ann Brown-Sloane. Her magic had worked once again.

The idea of setting up a Prefab Philosophy Club took off in a big way when we were sat on the kerbstone at the top of Woodhedge Road. The desultory penalty kicking against the black painted school gate had come to a halt, and a hunger was in the air for some intellectual work. Gazing up at the bright blue sky we saw a solitary shining cloud in the shape of the British Isles was hovering directly above us. 'Tubby' Lard hit the nail on the head when he said: "It is as if the Gods have ripped our country's page from their atlas of the world and magnified it a thousand times!" Ann Brown-Sloane recalls this moment "a numinous epiphany, a meeting of Joan of Arc and William Blake in the Twiverton heavens!" For Gary Bollard this was a moment of definitive change: "The days of life on our prefab estate being poor, solitary, nasty, brutish and short are over!"
The long Summer holiday was drawing to a close and we had been kicking our heels around for too long. If there had been tennis courts and a swimming pool near-by everything would have felt different. As it was our brains had been atrophying and our physiques going flabby. We needed a new agenda, something which would galvanize us into life and stop us going to the dogs! Something which would endow our prefab estate with a slice of panache and kudos and counter the condescension of the non-prefab world. We had to raise our game and get noticed. We had to set up a philosophy club!