My teenage years were spent living miserably in an 8th floor flat on an infamous London council estate, which many years later I found out was at one point home to the ‘Shoe Bomber’ too.  I’ve changed the name of it (just in case!) in the poem below.  It’s all true by the way, but the photo underneath is just one I saw on the Free Photos site showing a similar block of flats:

Flats.jpg

 

In nineteen hundred and seventy one
The Crozier Estate had just begun.
Four thousand souls in the September heat
Made themselves at home amongst the London concrete.

Flats, maisonettes, and houses galore,
Had risen up from an airfield's floor.
Grey breeze blocks had been cobbled together
To give the people a happy ever after.

For eight long years I stayed there with my dad and mum
Until my day of freedom could come.
When I could leave the place where few trees grew,
And where the council had slowly let
All the eggs sink in one rotten basket.

When the original tenants did move or die,
With relish arrived the work-shy.
Over the sound of the TV at night,
Police outside would break up yet another fight.

Ambulances were two a penny
In the days when there were many.
A&E doctors came to dread the state
Of the inhabitants of the Crozier Estate.

In nineteen hundred and ninety four,
My mum, now a widow, heard a kick at her door.
It wasn't the first time, and she knew for sure
That she must move to where we were.

The estate had sunk to a new level of low,
Mildewed, decaying, unloved, and so...
We took my mum on a little ride
And moved her out to the countryside.
She hated it, this new place of hers,
And took the piss out of the villagers.

In two thousand and ten the bulldozers came round
And razed the estate down to the ground.
But like a phoenix it rose again without a hitch,
And is now a billion pound 'des res' for the rich!

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