My boy and I were standing together outside the front door of his partner’s house while he smoked a cigarette. Since my boy’s first (and his partner’s fourth) child was born, they haven’t smoked inside the house. Fine drizzle was swirling in the orange glow of the streetlight. In comfortable silence we stood and contemplated the view of the council estate where he lives.
A tradition has grown up for dumping ‘problem’ families here from across the county, so this particular slough of despond is notorious for drugs, petty vandalism and domestic violence. The most pathetic of last week’s crop of court cases reported in the local paper was that of a 19-year-old man charged with possession of 0.05 of a gram of a class-A drug, breaching a restraining order by sending a text message to his former girlfriend, assaulting a police officer and causing criminal damage to a door, lock and doorframe.
My boy pulled discreetly on his fag. Immediately in front of us was a six-foot square of what was once grass but was now churned mud with ground-in toys — an intergalactic astronaut’s handgun; a one-legged doll; an orange felt-tipped pen. The wheeled rubbish bin lay on its side. A black rubbish bag shredded by seagulls’ beaks showed a disposable nappy wreathed with potato peelings. In the road, two kids’ bikes and a scooter lay abandoned. Across the road was the ugly rear of a terraced row of council houses, built, I guessed, in that golden era of social-housing design, the 1970s.
My boy and his partner have been fortunate, however. Their council house is only two years old and has been designed with a surprising amount of thought and respect, as though someone had omitted to tell the architect to cut out the fancy stuff.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in