Letter: Emily Thornberry MP

I sent a handwritten version of this sometime in March. I was bored and in a very cheeky mood. Thornberry did not reply but passed the letter to Mark Field, who sent me a creepy letter saying there was nothing he could do, etc, not my place to interfere, blah.

Dear Ms Thornberry

Islington Council and the City of London Corporation are about to unknowingly gift up to 300 of your constituents to Mark Field MP (Con).

This is the outcome of a proposed plan to redevelop a piece of land on the edge of Islington South formerly occupied by the Richard Cloudesley School to create ‘much needed social housing' and a primary academy.

On paper, the proposals look innocent by modern standards: a two-form primary school and a 14-storey tower block of dual-aspect apartments fronted onto Golden Lane. In practice, the development is a backdoor extension of the Grade II listed Golden Lane Estate.

The Golden Lane Estate is, as you probably already know, a place of worship for architecture students worldwide and a historically important ‘living museum’. It was an attempt to regenerate a badly bomb-damaged area of London after World War II on principles of good functional design, and a socially progressive and humane demonstration of how high-density inner-city living can work and thrive. Key workers from the nearby St Bartholomew’s hospital were among its first residents.

Today it is a much-loved urban oasis of hard-faced concrete, steel framing, coloured wall panels and green spaces. There is a gym, tennis courts and a swimming pool. There is the multi award-winning Golden Baggers allotment project. And we have a soon-to-be updated community hall that recently hosted herds of excited children crawling around the floor while adults sat gently swaying to the sound of a brass band playing David Bowie’s Life on Mars.

Now it has become the plaything of political pygmies. Here we find two councils, City of London Corporation and Islington Council cosied up in a plot to plonk your constituents onto the doorstep of the Golden Lane Estate. Many of them, I am sure, would be very happy about that, but if the current plans go ahead their homes will be managed and controlled by the Corporation of London and, by extension, incorporated into Mark Field MP's constituency of City of London and Westminster. The details of this ugly manoeuvre, plus graphic illustrations of its hideous effects can be found at https://www.facebook.com/groups/GLERA/ Your local Labour colleagues Mary Durcan and William Pimlott can also brief you.

South Islington and Golden Lane residents have lived together happily for many years. We share a lot. We have welcomed our Islington neighbours to events here on Golden Lane and they welcome us to activities around Whitecross Street, King Square and St Luke’s. But now, the partnership of manipulation formed by the City of London and Islington Council in this proposed development is set to blur the borders so much that there is no way your constituents can be adequately represented. In this sense they become hostages to bad politics. I fear Islington has been duped by the dark forces of political chicanery and the desire for an instant solution to key social problems at any cost. The plans are being railroaded forward with unseemly speed and very little proper consultation.

This letter is starting to sound like a Nimby rant, so I will finish, but ask you please to check the details for yourself, for the sake of your displaced constituents and for the reputation of Islington South.

Diary: Brighton, Adelfia restaurant

To a Greek restaurant, Adelfia in Preston Street, last night with Sue & Lil, Jaq & Lynne. We met beforehand for a drink in the Royal Sovereign. We laughed about the hammering Crystal Palace (Sue) had recently inflicted on Arsenal (Lil) and got tips for hangouts in Cristianos (The Hideaway, a pub near the church and the petrol station). Hotel California started playing on the pub sound system, at which point Sue asked me to name the band. When I replied the Eagles, she punched the air with a yell of EEEEGGULLLS (Crystal Palace), and I knew I’d been had. The music continued and I noticed at one point three of us quietly swaying in our seats to the country rhythm, mouthing the words to Take it Easy: ‘Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.’ Jaq did not attempt to hide her disgust.

Adelfia was friendly in the way we have come to expect from Greek restaurants and the staff’s happy mood infectious. The menu had other Mediterranean touches: halloumi dusted with flour before frying; the cheese stuffed into the peppers was softly spiced. During the mains (me, chicken souvlaki), Sue dropped a biggie. When Sue, Jaq and Jane were at university together, an older student they all knew not very well turned out to be the Westminster bomber. Cue them all trying to remember something about him that set him apart as a would-be mass killer. He was not interesting in any way, they reported, or they would have remembered more about him. Not like the gender fetish bloke who did things with raw chickens on the weekend. I spoke to Lil about Brexit and whether he feared for the future of his two daughters, 17 and 23. He was sure everything would turn out OK.

Diary: Brighton, Western Road

Walking west along the north side of Western Road, about half way between Currys-PC World and Argos, I spot an outstandingly overweight woman bouncing along in front of me, pitching and rolling from side to side as if trying to keep her balance during a choppy sea voyage. I started to think unkind thoughts about her. Should she have equal entitlement to nhs services? Should she be charged double for the two seats she occupies on buses and trains? That nasty sort of misanthropy. Then I spotted her male companion. He was much thinner, but still probably obese by modern measuring methods. His outstanding feature was the pair of grey cotton jogging pants he was wearing – loose fitting and stretched droopy enough to exhibit his arse crack, but murkily stained in the rear toilet area. The single mark wasn’t big enough to spot from a distance, so not majorly embarrassing, some might think. But walking behind him was not a treat. Just as I expected to again to be taken over by hateful snobbish thoughts, instead I started to wonder whether I should tell him about it, and if I did, what might be his response. I found it hard to believe that his wife/girlfriend/spouse-equivalent wasn’t aware of his soiled state. Then I thought maybe they both knew but didn’t care. Maybe it had only just happened and nobody but me knew about it. All the time these thoughts were distracting me, my eyes were fixed on that humiliating patch. It got to the point where I started deliberately to look away in case anybody thought I had a thing about staring at men’s dirty arses. Then they both squeezed through the door of Foodilic and I was free.

Picture: Easter

Diary: Bridges peer support group

Mary is my favourite. Quietly determined, destined to succeed. I think the progress line should be called the Rocky Road and be randomly jagged.

Diary: 06.04.17

B is whingeing to P about his dire financial situation. 'They’ve cut my money off,’ he tells him. B is possibly one of the scraggiest-looking people in Britain. He is a spit for the 1970s TV character Catweazle. His hair is long and grey. His beard is full of waves and knots. His simple rectangular steel-frame glasses sit on the bump of his supposedly once broken nose. As his chin drops in fixed concentration while he rolls a cigarette, furtively, closely to his chest, the glasses slip over the nose-bump to the tip, where they sit, waiting to fall off their orange-peel landmass into his lap, which is more often than not clothed by a pair of heavily and variously stained jogging pants. Grooming is not a word that will ever be used to describe B.