Derek Stanley Jenkins was born in the middle years between the two World Wars. The world, in 1930, was still reeling from the loss of life from WW1 and the Spanish Flu. Britain was united in its constituent parts but riven by class conflict. We mostly remember the 1930s for the Great Depression. Life in London was, however, generally improving thanks to better living standards and falling prices. Unfortunately, the rise of Fascism and far right ideologies led to militarisation and conflict that saw industrialised warfare return to Europe. So, Dad's boyhood was inevitably very mixed. A childhood home in the heart of London when it was very much a mixed economy filled with traffic in the canals and on the streets; homes heated by coal, smoke endlessly escalating into the sky (1931 was full of storms and 1933 was one of the hottest summers on record, while the end of August 1936 saw an extraordinary sweep from very low to high temperatures on a single day).

Knowing Dad, he would have been playing in the streets, leading some mischief and mayhem, playing pranks, swinging a stick as a sword, or kicking a football. None of this explains the delight that he took in later life in classical music and art. From all that I recall of conversations with Nan, Dad appears to have been bold and energetic right from the start. That didn't stop him from tempering his activities with care: after WW2 he was called up for national service joining Second Para refusing to continue beyond his allotted time in the army, which would have allowed him to go to Korea, thus avoiding an extension of service that he felt he would not have wanted. Instead he eventually joined the Territorials' REME and settled into civilian life working in an engineering workshop adjacent to Old Street as a blacksmith/riveter/engineer.

Pictures of Dad from the 1950s show a handsome young man in his prime (before he broke his nose boxing). This is the decade of transition from a war footing to peace and the opening of an age of relative health and wealth, with the creation of the NHS and the Welfare State, and with the advent of commercial flights for holidays and business increasingly targeting a broad audience; by the 1960s a 'package holiday' to Spain had become a thing. The end of the 50s and the 60s also saw Dad's marriage (to the pretty young Sylvia Sait) and the arrival to this world of his three children: Keith, Julie and then, an accident, David! Dad had ambitions to move to New Zealand but decided that the family would thrive better living in London. So, we lived in a flat in Sutton Dwellings, tenement buildings that still stand as a monument to the gentrification of that part of London in the 1980s. By this point in time, Dad had started working in Her Majesty's Stationary Office in High Holborn, supplementing his salary with work on the print at night manhandling newspapers, which must have been a gruelling experience, made harder when we moved to Loughton and he faced a 50 minute commute back into London from Essex.

The family moved to No. 46 Monksgrove, Loughton, on Oakwood Hill Estate, in 1973. A funny box of a place, we had jumped the GLC queue by moving into a wonderfully rambling and decrepit house (8 Napier Grove) just one street away from Nan, Grandad, Barbara, Charlie, and Gillian. The house was due for demolition as part of the ongoing renovations in that part of London. We had five years at the house in Napier Grove, which Dad was firmly convinced was only held together by the wallpaper he had put up. We children had survived the three-day week and blackouts in the basement, but had no real idea of the pressure this was placing on our parents. Dad must have found this an intensely worrying time as did most parents of young children. Strikes seemed more usual at this time and seemed to be part of the rhythm of that particular zeitgeist. 

Over the years, we three children gradually left home; Dad and Mum's life changed and home became a refuge at Christmas and Easter when we all came together. It also meant that Dad and Mum could start to take advantage of holiday's abroad: Dad spoke with relish of eating and drinking in Yugoslavia and Bulgaria, where food and drink were very good but inexpensive. The years rolled by to Dad's retirement, during which time he lost and gained weight, cycled, played badminton, and, reluctantly, gave up both his service in the 'Terries' and his much loved Sunday football playing for 'Gordon'. Along the way he made, and kept, many good friends: Georgie Bevan, Arthur Lawes and many, many more.

Dad's retirement allowed him to take up new pursuits. He joined Loughton bowling club serving many years as a member and as a team captain being victorious as an individual and with his team. Always a reader of adventure and action novels, he continued to expand his collection of books and a video library (focussed on John Wayne, Errol Flynn and the James Bond movies) eventually replaced by DVDs. Sadly, he was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, which curtailed his long love affair with food and drink. His passion had been such that he had spent many happy hours making homemade wine from kits; the success of his Orange wine was only countered by the fact that it could take varnish off a table top. Eventually, Dad succumbed to Alzheimers, which made the last decade of his life increasingly difficult for those around him. Olivia, his granddaughter, recalls with acute embarrassment a time on the underground with Grandad in his wheelchair pulling on the sleeve of a stranger saying "Do you know it?" Then singing hoarsely, "Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think..." His life was long and rich in so many ways. Perhaps this is his lasting chorus to us all. So from Dad to me to you, enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself.