The long summer holiday allows time to reflect on the difficult future facing many young people
You can’t always get what you want
A bank holiday spent painting (the kitchen rather than a mock Dalí) allows time for uninterrupted thought, a luxury item and one of the plus points of the desert island experience or solitary confinement.
Random thoughts, driven by looking out of the window, staring very closely at the lino while scrubbing at the tiny weeny splatters of emulsion with Cillit Bang, rerunning the week that was… well last week and the conclusion is, it got you nowhere.
The excruciating tortoise plod pace of change takes forever and never delivers what is promised.
The era of ‘all shall have prizes’ is being challenged. Not every kid got their predicted GCSE grade.
The teachers are up in arms. Their abilities are being challenged they feel, not those of the kids. There will be an investigation - parents and head teachers insist. Everyone talks of the despair of those for whom some small percentage point meant the difference between the coverted A-star and an A grade.
The era of ‘all shall have social housing’ is over too, at least in London. Not everyone who wants a council flat will get one. Are howls of protest heard? Is any kind of investigation being insisted upon? Will this strategy disproportionally hit any particular vulnerable group and be declared discriminatory? What percentages are being used? No percentages. Just the generosity of our betters opening up the only ‘asset’ the working classes used to have to the rest of the world. The hasty rush to abandon the family unit led by our monstrous regiment has left our youngsters adrift and we are all paying the price for it. All whimper and no bang.
Get over it
So, in London at least, fledgling new tenants born into social housing are no longer allowed to live in the community in which they grew up. They are being told to get on their bikes and move to other parts of the country - where they know no one and there is no work.
The consensus is, that’s life. Get over it. If you can’t afford to live there, then you can’t. You can’t have your own flat. You will have to have a bedroom in a shared house and, by the way, just in case you hadn’t worked it out, we have failed to educate you to an employable standard.
It’s a double whammy for some. I’m glad I’m old.
Prince Harry is an arse and the barely clothed young ‘ladies’ who orchestrated the whole really rather embarrassing Las Vegas display ape the behaviour of the youngsters on the street round here.
Joanne struts around in the teensiest of shorts and never pays for anything, men pay for food, electricity, clothes, nappies. Instead of selling photos she sells herself. She lives her life by seeking out the company of those who will buy her things in return for a piece of her. Those photos of a naked Prince Harry cost The Sun a lot more than Joanne charges. I never understood values in maths. All bang and no whimper.
Facebook is the biggest snitch in town. It is the hugest gossip machine that has driven riots, murders and numerous divorces. There should be no need for police informers anymore. That should lift the cloak of fear from the law abiding on some estates. Wikileaks doesn’t seem to have the same liberating effect on the establishments of various countries though.
Celebrity Big Brother or house of multiple occupation? It looks like a dry run for our youngsters waiting to get bedroom space, or are they just desperately seeking attention?
The opening ceremony of the Olympics was one of the few things that have been worth retaining in the ever diminishing memory banks. There was, apparently, a political message in Danny Boyle’s depiction of the NHS but there was no mention of social housing.
It’s still the summer holidays.
Why Cillit Bang? It sounds like a pop star’s sprog. As you can tell, the heady fumes are getting to me.
Julie Fawcett is a housing association tenant and a director of Stockwell Park Community Trust