"To the Workhouse wiv 'em all."

                                                  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 most.  It is Dickensian.

Now the nature of the work that Mears does is varied, and their cultural capital within the community is high: they support youth; donate to charities and are actively supportive of projects undertaken by local Universities.

It is unlikely in the extreme that anyone at these luminous levels has any awareness of some ruffling of feathers down in some obscure building, with which one of their construction teams was involved.

It is equally obvious that no hint of any of said ruffling has been passed above the lowest level of the company hierarchy where it all began. When it was indeed a mere ruffling which could easily have been settled with an apology and an attempt to address the problem.

I mention that it is obvious there is a blockage somewhere on the inter-Departmental level, because, judging by its public face,  those who represent the company would be disturbed to learn of the image that is being presented in the field. And to what extent this has been exacerbated by the attitude, of which we have all, by now, had a gutfull.

We have been lied to, made fun of, sniggered at, blamed, ignored, been the butt of racist and sexist jokes…and that’s on a good day.

Because the attitude prevails.  Our only requirement is to be grateful. We must be grateful we have any kind of roof over our heads at all.  We must be grateful for any attention given us. We must be grateful indeed that we are not left exposed on a mountain-top because we are a drain on society. And if it were not for the taxes of even the lowliest plumbers’ mate who crosses our thresholds we would not be here. We must be very, very grateful for that.

And we are, godammit!  We are.

 I can’t envisage what would have happened to me, or any of my neighbours if I did not live in England.  I look at the huddled forms in doorways and wonder if that would have been my lot in another country.

 But all the gratefulness in the world cannot banish the helplessness of not even having the power to demand our right to be listened to.

Elsewhere in the world there’s been a huge shift: - a person’s right to dignity is recognized.  A person’s  objections against trickery, deceit and disrespect  listened to; vulnerable people are protected and it’s taken for granted that most people have an I.Q. at least in double figures.

But on Benefits Street, Brighton  the villains still swirl their capes; the evil Workhouse beadles serve weevils in the gruel; and we doff our caps and are very, very ‘umble.