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Our house was a very, very, very nice house.....



It started out as a late Victorian – or perhaps early Edwardian – family home. It steadily declined until such time as, with much fanfare, it had been stripped inside and turned into flats.

The 'fanfare' was not not a figure of speech: there really was a fuss made – with coverage in the media which shows the lovely old place being officiated over by  local MP. Caroline Lucas.

Our building was presented as part of an initiative to assimilate those on Benefits into the local community. The stigma of being banished to the further reaches of town to live in seething communities  in brick blocks would not attach to the lucky occupants of this building.  Its sympathetic conversion ( one or two original ceiling roses and some restrained ceiling mouldings have been left in place), while incorporating modern interior architecture, blends well to showcase apartments that would be the envy of many of those chasing accommodation in the private sector all over Brighton and Hove.

And the fact that this delightful building was being given over to house Council tenants was a tangible reality,  empiric proof of a forward-looking, equitable strategy regarding  improved housing for the unfortunate: or the swine who loll about all day living off our taxes – whichever is one's view.

And hell, yeah! It was great.  The day I first saw it  - when we were all able to view our assigned flats – I couldn't believe my luck.  There were still a few workmen scurrying around, the building smelt of new paint, and new, virgin carpets. It wasn't just warm inside – it was toasty. Everything gleamed and sparkled in the sun that was obligingly spreading light from the beautifully big old windows onto new chrome and gleaming white walls.

I was so excited I had to keep telling myself it was real.  I'd ridden through the various council estates; gazing in horrified fascination from the top of a double-decker bus. I'd had to share an apartment in the private rental sector. An apartment which transgressed every code in the book was full of mould and ripped lino, was bone-chillingly cold, and housed also The Housemates from Hell.

 This was heaven.

I wasn't the only one who was excited either: the people in the Housing Department; those who had helped me all the way through; my case-workers; the people in  Temporary Accommodation; even the security guys - were also full of smiles and, one supposes, job satisfaction. A couple of high-fives even sprang up in that rather self-conscious British way.

After the daily grind of dealing with tales of rats and obstreperous neighbours; of shuffling desperate, whining people from one graffiti covered brick box to another, this must have been the kind of situation they had dreamed of when they joined the Department. They had truly changed people's lives, given them a new start, seen the happiness of the faces. And we  loved them for it.

But of course, they were only the Infantry. It's the moustachioed captains  and bewhiskered colonels far behind the lines who are  calling the shots.

And it wasn't long before the fact that our place in this particular theatre was made clear: we were the rag, tag, and bobble tail . Completely disposable. And if we didn't watch our Ps and Qs we became the enemy.

And we hadn't even known there was a war going on.

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