The prefabs on our estate were built according to the same uniform and standardised specifications. However it did not take long before each one acquired its own distinctive persona. Some stayed in a pristine blotch-less condition for years on end and their exteriors were gently caressed by the sweet scent of roses. An air of serenity was given off the moment you walked up their gilded paths. Others exuded a pungent body odour from the word go. Mysterious rusty stains were streaked across their lower firmaments. Stray hounds on the look out for hospitable terrains felt obliged to give them regular anointing.
There is one prefab (unfortunately it is situated next to our own) which has had more stray hound dog visits than most. Its first resident enjoyed climbing in through neighbours' windows and hurling their cutlery into the back yard. So there was sweet relief all round when this acrobatic prowess led to a move to Bristol and a professional career in goal for the Black Arabs football club. However the relief at his departure was rapidly dissipated the moment residents on the estate caught sight of who was moving in to take his place. It was the Swileys!
Those who have an over-romantic view of life in prefabs in the nineteen fifties always forget the Swileys. And almost every prefab estate had its Swileys. Cultural tourists would linger outside the Swileys' prefab for a brief spell of anthropological voyeurism. The slick salesman's immaculate corner prefab which had ivy twirling up its drainpipe, sparkling windows, a glittering polished interior and an aura of genteel tea and scones refinement had no appeal at all.