Benefit Street, Brighton.

                                                   Benefits Street, Brighton Dickens having been such a prolific writer, and so many of his books having been made into films, it’s not remarkable that, for most people, his depictions of life in the Workhouse and the slums – and the effect of that life on children - hit a National chord. For most of his reading public  variations on Dickensian themes  have been the standard template for depictions of poverty and inequality. Remarkable as it might seem, it would appear that Mears staff – or at least the only staff we of the great unwashed have access to – have likewise reached adulthood familiar with these tropes. (Though I mentioned the films which could be the only explanation for any source of knowledge in some cases). For without doubt, whenever I meet with others whose buildings are serviced by Mears, the common link is in the attitude of this National, very visible, mega-million pound organization that rankles the

I went to a meeting last week.  Our landlords (Seaside Homes) were there, as was one member of Council’s Temporary Accommodation Team.  The subject of Mears (inevitably) came up.  And the crowd went wild. It was admitted that our place was the poster-child for Mears inadequacy, blunders and SNAFUs. However, the stories from people living in other buildings administered to by Mears, once again proved that it’s not just our happy band who have had enough – so have other Council tenants across Brighton and Hove. ( Recent research has also shown that  dissatisfaction with Mears, in fact, is rife across other parts of the UK where they operate.) The question of the length of Mears contract with Council was raised by a choleric and indignant tenant of another building.  That’s one huge elephant in the room whenever discussion throws up the word “Mears”: -  It’s a ten year contract.  TEN YEARS!  I’ll admit that my direct involvement in the construction field dates back to my

I was about 16 when my father passed on this nugget.  From the hall came my mother’s protest wail.  Followed by a muffled giggle. The only other Wise Words I can remember my father passing down were “Never trust a Teetotaler”. But those two have been enough to see me through many a tricky situation. However, I realized after we had moved into The House here that several fathers must have entrusted their progeny with one, at least, of my parent’s rules for life.  So committed to the proposition of b.s. being the key to life had some of these obedient sprogs become that it become their work ethic when they reached man’s estate – it was obviously blu-tacked to the walls of Mears construction team’s office. I first realized this 6 weeks after we had moved in and I awoke one morning to discover that my mattress, duvet. pillows and the wall behind my head were wet.  Stripping back the mattress to investigate I found a healthy mushroom colony thriving in the carpet and blue-gree

There are persons everywhere who would find the juxtaposition of the words “Respect” and “People on Benefits” very strange. Their knee-jerk response would be that people who choose to waste their time in school, have babies in their teens, and live off everyone else’s taxes,  are not deserving of respect. Hell, I might even have been one of them, once. The first time I ever heard about Council tenants  and people living off benefits was in the Isle of Wight, where I had taken my two sons for their summer holidays to stay with their grandmother. We were living in South Africa then and had no experience of the Welfare State. Though I can’t remember who he was, I remember walking down my mother’s street towards the Cowes Ferry and chatting with some bloke.  We passed a small, two storey nest of flats with open balconies and summer flowers spilling from window boxes. “See them there?” my forgotten companion asked rather redundantly as we were right in front of the building.

As tenants in our lovely old Victorian villa we all had a lot of time to get together and swap stories about the behavior of our contractors, Mears.  These initial conversations took place usually in the early hours of the morning, the middle of the night or around the babies Bath n’ Bed Time. Those were the times when the fire alarms in various flats would suddenly go off. Mums would whip screaming babies out of hot baths or warm cots; grab a couple of towels or a blankie and stumble off into the cold, dark front garden to await the fire-brigade. That never took long.  The first couple of times they came in with sirens blaring, back-up, and grim, business-like faces. Then they started not to bother with the sirens. And finally they would arrive with bored faces and frequent references to the value of their time.  Because there never was a fire. Often no-one was even using so much as a toaster.  Being woken to flashing lights, ear-piercing alarms, and being rushed into t

I haven’t simply forgotten about the story of Our House. That’s impossible as we are all living the story as it unfolds.  But things are changing a little deep down here – a small ray of light has started to reach us. The past 19 months, since the Old House finally shook itself and got ready for a new lease of life, have been so eventfull, so compelling, and so full of drama that half the house is now on anti-depressants. But out of all that, maybe something good is happening right now.  I think we might just have taken a small step for humanity. We’ve become an Association… And so – to go back to the beginning… This completely gutted and re-vamped Victorian villa, which comprises 16 households, is the product of a scheme undertaken by Seaside Homes in conjunction with Council, to assimilate People Like Us into the community: rather than confining us to the ghettos that ring that community. So the building and surrounds had to meld into the  middle-class spic n’ sp