Jim

They called it Oxney Villas, council villas in Felsted.
Not an estate but a close.
Nice houses built in the fiftees.

Across the way was Jim, a Jock and a drinker of whisky.
A man from northern weather
And a lover of liquid Eriskay.

Such were the people of old council houses.
Retired folk, builders, dustmen.
Not men of computers.

Labourers, benefit holders, low incomes but miraculous providers.

Felsted was the divide between rich and poor,
The Villas a previous age.
Old men of the war and sugar beet factory,
Middle classes on the other side in posh houses.

Perhaps they crossed paths in pubs
But I doubt it became deep friendship.

On one street lived lawyers, bankers and city retirees,
On my street an ex-SAS alcoholic.

I wonder now who these men were.
Some must have fought in the unions,
A winter of discontent or battling Thatcher.

Some would have bought their council houses
Whilst others would have carried on with the rent.

What had they done in their national service?
Had they been in Malaysia?
Some may have seen Korea,
And others the barracks at Dover.

There weren't many council houses then.
There aren't many now come to think of it.

The Housing Associations came about.
And into the estates we went.

The new houses told no stories,
The old boys left the Earth to enter glory.

From old council streets to new estates,
From old systems to new ones.

Now men must tell their stories,
Before their glory comes to meet them.