key 13 - Becontree | La Crim's Life

Key 13, Becontree

Moving back to one's hometown is often a path filled with nostalgia, rekindled memories, and a comforting sense of familiarity. But what happens when the path takes an unexpected turn? What, indeed, if the home sweet home you'd imagined morphs into a chaos of unforeseen complications? Let's delve into the reality of someone who moved back to London, only to confront a challenging situation that rendered their dreams into a frustrating ordeal.

Imagine you had just moved back to London with a dream to occupy a house complete with a serene garden.
Suppose the house you'd located was in Becontree in the scenic London Borough of Barking & Dagenham.
Now imagine if your dream turned into a nightmare as your new house posed massive repair issues, thanks to the reckless improvements undertaken by the previous tenants.

"I felt like I'd bitten off more than I can chew. It started to affect my peace of mind, giving rise to severe stress. And I could feel the familiar signs of an imminent outburst - a pattern I fall into when things don't quite go my way, especially when dealing with people in positions of authority."

Are you relating to this narrative? If so, then read along as we dissect this situation and seek a resolution.

Returning to London stirred a cocktail of emotions in me. On one side, I relished the escape from the unruly lot in East Hanningfield; on the flip side, I was heading towards a place that wasn't exactly popular, including with myself. The lure here wasn't an extra room, but it was the garden in Dagenham that clinched the deal. The date is etched in my memory - the 12th of May 2018. A thick shroud of gloom hung over Dagenham that day, a sinister harbinger right from the start. Upon my arrival at the property, Daron and my brother were already there, having done an initial survey of the place.

The initial words Daron uttered to me were questioning if the prior tenants would return to retrieve their remaining belongings. Abandoned items cluttered the space, rendering the spare room utterly inaccessible. In stark contrast to my meticulous cleaning of my former flat, dirt populated corners I hadn’t even fathomed could accumulate grime. The squalor that enveloped the vacated bed space, as well as hidden behind kitchen apparatus, was nothing short of shocking. They had assumed, rather brazenly, that I would tackle their leftover mess. Even the garden shed hadn’t escaped their neglect, serving as an impromptu dump. To say they vacated in a flurry of rubbish is an understatement. Finally, I resorted to hiring a sizable skip to dispose of the property's residual items and waste. Certainly, I felt taken advantage of, but on the upside, I had possession of a house embellished with my own private garden. Granted, years of inattention had taken their toll on the estate, but I held steadfast to the belief that I could reclaim the space. Initially, I envisioned crafting a city sanctuary, however, the harsh reality quickly unfolded: this house burrowed a deep, debt-inducing hole in my pocket.

Unexpectedly, I stumbled upon an alarming damp and mold issue hidden cleverly at the time of the viewing, now prevalent in every corner of the house. The most disastrous situation was in the primary bedroom. Contrary to his unusual attempts at home renovation, the prior tenant's built-in wardrobe in that room was far from practical. Essentially, this man had put together a wardrobe that lacked the depth for functional use, necessitating an odd arrangement of clothes at an angle, wasting valuable space. Moreover, the mold manifestation inside this makeshift wardrobe was the most horrendous. There was absolutely no chance that I would let my attire be exposed to this, leading to my decision to dismantle the wardrobe altogether to access and treat the mold-ridden wall.

Commencing the undertaking with the removal of mold was nothing more than the tip of the iceberg for the magnitude of this project. Suddenly, I found myself caught in the depths of a quicksand-like predicament. The house seemed to have an insatiable appetite for capital, funds I desperately lacked. The sobering realization soon dawned upon me; this grand old house was a financial vortex, spiraling me into a whirlpool of relentless debt. Quite evidently then, I'd bitten off more than I could comfortably handle.

As summer emerged, I made the decision to invest my resources into enhancing my backyard. The primary objective was to remove an unsightly chicken pen left behind by the previous tenant. Next came the task of dealing with the shingle, a clear sign the former occupant was tired of maintaining the garden. While it was a hefty task shifting 3 tons worth of them, the wonders of Facebook freebies certainly expedited the task. It required a great deal of effort on my part to bag them up and place them on the driveway for collection. With the shingle gone, I was able to tear down a shabby path and replace it with new, polished slabs. I installed sleepers at the back to create a sophisticated step entrance into the shed, accompanied by a couple of beautifully landscaped flower beds. Despite the labor-intensive nature of the undertaking, there was a sense of enjoyment that came with transforming the landscape. However, I can hardly envisage doing such arduous work on a daily basis.

Relocating to Becontree in Barking and Dagenham, it didn't take long before I realized that I was in the minority amidst my predominantly racist community. Particularly, there was a glaring disdain for black people, especially those of African descent, while Jamaicans were somewhat more tolerated. Such blatant levels of prejudice were something I hadn't experienced since my childhood days in Canning Town. Indeed, it seemed as though it was the same generation perpetuating their bigoted views. As a young boy, I observed a near-racial riot, incited by racists looking to exploit a situation to justify their own agendas.

Imagine a scenario where a young girl I knew called Terri inadvertently kicks off an incident by picking some putty from a window. The homeowners, a black family, are understandably displeased and confront the girl. This encounter doesn't go unnoticed; a family across the road, clouded by racial biases, observes the situation. Taking it upon themselves to intervene, they aggravate the situation with physical violence, catapulting a minor dispute into a full-blown brawl between the black and the white family.

In the heart of East London, bystanders poured in from every corner, swelling the crowd to well over a hundred. This dispute, initially contained, had now transformed into a community spectacle, witnessing both verbal altercations and physical confrontations. At the peak of the discord, a quiet observer, a black man, became the target of an unprovoked assault by a group of white men. Surrounded and overpowered, he was brutally beaten and left on the ground as his attackers vanished into the sea of spectators.

Rising from the dust, the man bore the scars of the ruthless attack. His face, previously recognizable, was now transformed by a redness that covered the blackness of his skin, like a canvas awash with the colors of violence. His features, distorted by swelling, had become nearly unrecognizable, masking the man he once was. Truly, it was a heartbreaking sight that shook the core of humanness within me.

Regrettably, during a vulnerable era of my life in 2020, in Dagenham, I found myself mirroring this same racism - not in principle, but as a form of misguided retaliation. It's a chapter in my life that offers no grounds for pride. The challenges related to my mental well being often prompt me to express harsh and hurtful language, particularly when I feel deprived of the life I believe I'm entitled to by higher authorities.

This is by no means an acceptable excuse and I sincerely apologize for the harsh words spoken to my key worker of color. The blatant truth is, they were let down by me in Becontree - a failure that is magnified by my own ensuing personal failure.

Experiencing racism was an unfortunate part of my early life, as I was often the one on the receiving end of such bigotry. My first friendship bloomed during my years at infant school, interestingly with an Asian female. The nature of her ethnicity never stirred any problem for me at all. We didn't share our classes, but we used to enjoy each other's company during lunch breaks in the schoolyard. Nonetheless, I soon found myself becoming a target to Dean's bullying. I was uncivilly labeled as the 'Paki Lover,' a maltreatment that was not only relentless but often escalated with additional participants. Unfortunately, I had to endure aggressive verbal lashings more than once - an ominous intimidation from older children.

There was a time in my youth when I grappled with how to navigate complex situations. And, regrettably, the path I chose was far from the best. An example includes alienating once close friends by behaving in ways I don't truly understand myself, such as shoving the asian friend's head towards a tree trunk during playground escapades. I would frighten her while shielding myself with my hood. My actions still puzzle me.

In the end, my desperate plea for intervention manifested as an attempt to physically induce her mother's attention. I jostled her at the entrance of the school gates, aiming to make her topple into her mother's sphere. This attempt fell flat, she crumbled to the ground instead. That incident was the last time I saw her.

This bitter memory plagues me, a dark skeleton in my closet that hints at the reasons behind my current character traits and behavioral patterns. Even her name eludes my memory, a testament to my young age at that time. Revisiting this tale fills me with profound shame. While Dean, who once bullied me, might've forgotten about the past, my actions are permanently etched into the tapestry of my memory, and they are inescapable.

Living in Dagenham, in retrospect, might not have been my best decision. Just like in Chelmsford or Harlow, I struggled to form any connections or friendships. The merciless reality is, it feels like I'm on a downward spiral, perpetually losing pieces of my life to the drain. Trust doesn't come easy to me - a natural defense mechanism built from past experiences of being exploited. When my life took a turn and I encountered legal issues, the few friends I thought were reliable, dissipated out of my life, leaving me alone in the aftermath.

Despite my time spent isolated in Runwell Hospital, the only individuals reaching out were those from my own bloodline. It's quite the enigma how someone as socially adept as me could misplace their path, but alas, I did. Currently residing in Becontree, the relentless clutches of solitary existence feel suffocating. There's a profound dissatisfaction I encounter when strolling my canine companion in this locality, the reasons for which include the quantities of loitering like the broken glass everywhere. Nevertheless, I find satisfaction in driving my four-legged friend to distant country-side locations. These drives, while delightful, are rapidly burning a hole in my pocket. The frequency of these expeditions sometimes requires spending up to £10 on fuel - an expense that is certainly unsustainable. I've realized I'm stuck in a vortex of unhappiness in Becontree, a feeling that commenced subtly but gradually built up, resembling the crescendo in a symphony.

My dread now is whether this feeling of unrest will follow me everywhere, like an unshakeable shadow, tied to my self-perception and my life. Gone are the days when I could rely on external support - be it practical or otherwise. The sole prop I can lean on now, is myself. But, I confess I am lost, beginning to question how I can cut these binding ropes of despair and free myself.

Not long after I settled down in Becontree, I found myself in a tribunal with Ashraf. This man, who had unjustly tampered with my tax code in declaring more wages than I earned, found himself pinned down by the tribunal which forced him to come clean about his deceitful actions. While he claimed it's an innocent mistake, I couldn't shake off the idea that he knew exactly what he was doing. Later, though, I found myself sympathizing with him, considering whether he was simply clueless and not, as I initially thought, a clever swindler. Throughout the tribunal, Ashraf seemed unable to keep his figures straight, even challenging my holiday pay calculations, only to be told by the tribunal that according to his figures, he owes me more than my own calculations indicated. Ultimately, the tribunal sided with my computations, the judgment fell in my favor, and I simply yearned to end this disheartening chapter of my life in Chelmsford.

Finding employment at Papa John's in Brentwood was a crucial step for me, making it possible to follow through with my house renovation plans. Being situated in Brentwood, the weekend schedule stretched until 3am, an operating hour that proved to be a litmus test when handling inebriated customers. Despite the challenges, I initially enjoyed clocking all my allowable hours over just two days. But in due course, I noticed a discrepancy – Papa John’s seemed to imply my ineligibility for holiday pay. Naturally, I know better, and it's glaringly apparent I'll soon be navigating a tribunal to reclaim this entitlement, potentially incinerating yet another bridge.

Finding employment has turned into my beacon of escape from the confining grip of benefits; the overbearing control by the DWP on my health and well-being, despite their blunt disinterest, is something I vehemently disagree with. I have set my sights on acquiring this council house; fabricating a brighter future for myself. However, landing a mortgage requires steady employment. Existing trust issues with employers and doubts about my capability to work on a continuous basis without faltering health, weigh heavily on my mind. To boost my employability, I sought out several construction courses at STC Group. I found a natural affinity for carpentry, and from there, I explored both painting & decorating, and tiling, pushing my boundaries. Each course was a source of joy and accomplishment and I received an Outstanding Achievement Certificate for my efforts in each module.

In the journey of building my qualifications, I managed to secure my CSCS card, a mandatory prerequisite to entering the construction field. Despite this achievement, it turns out to be a hollow victory; I failed to leverage it for gainful employment. Almost inconceivable, it's been a staggering 20 so years since I performed a full-time job. The yearning for self-reliance is potent, a longing for the ability to bear my expenses independently. Yet, this dream gets bogged down by a multitude of hurdles -- a wage cap designed to keep the indigent downtrodden ranks top. When prospective employers learn about my past, they come across a series of failures lasting years. It makes it hard for them to place their trust and investment in me. "This has to change", a thought frequently flutters in my mind. I have to secure a job that provides well, especially before age discrimination starts creeping in. A familiar pattern persists: Recognition or promotion will evade me once people understand me better - a common occurrence in my life. Despite my sincerest intentions, the dream of securing a job in construction remains unfulfilled, largely due to my own insecurities.

I had landed an interview for a position as an apprentice design and technical coordinator - a role that I deeply desired. It marked my initial significant job interview in quite some time. Unfortunately, it didn't unfold as I had hoped. Ultimately, the employer expressed concerns that hiring me could lead to potentially setting me up to failure. These words struck a chord and the subsequent rejection dealt a significant blow to my self-esteem. It took time for me to rebound from this setback, re-evaluate, and slightly tone down my aspirations.

Without a doubt, the concept of Curvy Portraits Ltd was a bit haphazard. Now, I find myself nurturing the idea that perhaps art could be my future. After all, creativity flows through me naturally, and all I really need is to turn the corner towards a potentially promising career path. The thought of launching another enterprise doesn't cross my mind. Instead, becoming a self-employed artist seems more appealing. The moniker "Fine4rt" carries a certain appeal and could initially suffice as my allowed work. As time progresses, there's every possibility it may bloom into a full-time occupation and a reliable source of income during my golden years, if I can only reach that point.

With fond hopes of bidding my delivery job days goodbye, I managed to land a position at B & Q. More than anything else, I was eager to make this work. After a lengths of time, I was finally in the position to receive the benefits of holiday pay and, if the situation called for it, sick pay too. Being part of a big organization, it provided me with a blanket of stability and security I craved. I should stress that it wasn’t light work - being stationed at the building department meant that my days were filled with lifting heavy stocks and covering large distances during every shift. Despite this, the pleasant and encouraging company of my colleagues eased the burden. Their verbal appreciation for my efforts kept me going. However, this job was not without its costs. It left me with sciatica—a painful ailment slated to be my unwelcome companion for many years to come.

As it so happened, my diagnosis came well over three years after the incident, and by UK law, this meant they were no longer liable for the damages they had inflicted upon me. This company ruthlessly compromised my health and yet, didn't spare a single penny to compensate me. There wasn't even the decency to provide a consolation payment. Still, they seemed perfectly content to invest heavily in their legal defense in an attempt to silence my claim.

If history has taught me anything, it's that companies like Papa John's are notorious for shortchanging me on my holiday pay. My only recourse was to take the fight to an Employment Tribunal. Despite knowing that it could jeopardize my chances of future references, I wasn't too concerned since those don't seem to hold much weight in the delivery job market. It baffles me why a multitude of businesses believe they can rewrite the law to their advantage and withhold wages that should be rightfully mine.

Even more exasperating is the question of why I always end up working for people with such unfair practices. Papa John's owe me approximately £700, and truth be told, I badly need the funds. However, it's unjust for them to force me into a corner where I have to fight just to be paid what I'm rightfully owed. I've squandered nearly a decade bouncing from one delivery job to another. In the end, victory was mine at the tribunal, but getting the money was far from a walk in the park. The company proved to be elusive and financially challenged, however, I stood my ground and received a majority of what was owed.

Seemingly, B & Q has turned their back on me for reasons they alone are privy to. It grew increasingly apparent that my job was in jeopardy after sustaining a workplace injury. To retain some semblance of control, I chose to walk out myself, leaving them to digest the bitterness of defeat. However, they left me shortchanged, denying what they owed me. Consequently, I find myself bouncing from one tribunal to another. Fast forward to my fight for my unpaid dues, which surprisingly led to me being charged with harassment. It seems the minute people get to truly see those layers of me, hostility emerges. What am I to do? Stay hidden forever? It's apparent that I am different – categorized as a vulnerable adult – yet that does not warrant such widespread ill sentiment. Dislike towards me appears to be a common phenomenon, sparking inklings of discrimination. I strive to not take it to heart, but there's an impending fear that one day, tolerance will deplete, and I might isolate myself. But hasn't that process already been set in motion in many aspects?

I experienced an adverse reaction towards the unfair treatment received at B & Q and an episode triggered by another employer exploiting my situation. The society in which we live refuses to acknowledge or address my deep-rooted issues. As a consequence, I am now dealing with criminal charges once more, while they only face the prospect of a tribunal. Even though their deceptive practices have essentially robbed me, if my actions were the same, it would be considered a criminal offense. Yet, their dishonest motives are relegated to the realms of civil disputes. Is it an illusion, or are our authorities more slanted towards safeguarding business interests rather than that of the average citizen? To me, it certainly seems so.

In a daunting turn of events, local law enforcement began what felt like a relentless campaign of harassment, fueled by the area's youth. Their tactics were incessant and highly intrusive; invasions of my personal space and professional life were commonplace. At one point, they even dispatched a young individual to conspicuously position themselves across the train ride from me, a mobile phone in hand, mimicking voices through the device seemingly targeted towards me. Naturally, I found solace in seclusion, opting to walk off and hide out near the carriage door much further down. It wasn't long before another eager and blustering youngster burst through the door, caught a glimpse of me and wordlessly retreated. The United Kingdom felt the need to frame me in crimes yet to happen, this is called entrapment.

My time in Becontree, despite lasting only two years thus far, has been filled with disillusionment and isolation. Trust, in a locale such as this, feels more like a luxury than a basic social building block. I am now mired in staggering debt, living in a house I've come to realize is beyond my means. It's not just my financial wellbeing that's taken a hit, my mental health too, is gradually sliding down a dangerous path. I am losing my grip on stability, succumbing periodically to an overwhelming tide of despair and confusion. The environment I now find myself in, has become a catalyst for my discontent, a constant reminder of my persistent struggles.

Escaping Becontree has become my overriding goal, an imperative driven by a spiraling debt crisis that seems to have no end as well as profesional incompetence by the hands of the council. From the outset, troubles that trailed me from my past in Chelmsford began to pile up. Within a few short months, my vehicle was subjected to recurrent acts of vandalism. This unnerving trend launched me on a quest for security, a craving that led me to invest in surveillance cameras, high-quality locks, and even saw me embark on the labor-intensive task of installing London Bars and Hinge Bolts.

The determination to make this house a home consumed me. I took drastic measures. However, with every step towards fortifying my abode came an undesired side effect – mounting debt, a hazardous pit I never imagined I would fall into. This financial strain, boosted by my gnawing anxiety over personal safety, has become a formidable adversary in my quest for a peaceful life here.

As I tread deeper into the journey of life, it feels as if the years are stealthily slipping by, disappearing in the blink of an eye. I'm not convinced they're truly accelerating though. I speculate that this is more of a peculiar quirk of consciousness where each year is measured as a fraction of my entire lifespan. As each year passes, it becomes a tinier fraction, inducing an illusion that time itself has somehow compressed.

The defining moment arrived one sunny afternoon at Belhus Country Park. I was out with Zarah, who, with her irresistible charm and abundant affection, became an instantaneous sensation amongst a group of kiddos. I had no qualms sharing her joy for a few fleeting moments - laughter, smiles, and exuberance filling the air. However, it was a sweltering day and, donned in a t-shirt, the scars on my arms - old remnants of self-harm - were plainly visible. What followed was a sharp turn of events - parents, upon catching up with their overjoyed young ones, noticed the scars, the alarm bells ringing immediately in their heads. The joyful scene turned sour, the parents almost instinctively pulling their children away. In the aftermath, I was left feeling tainted, almost exploited. An unwitting lesson from the parents, teaching children to view others through the lens of discernment and prejudice.

It's safe to say that the world we all inhabit isn't always a place of warmth. Often, a shared sense of humanity and compassion seems to elude us, with individuals acting selfishly and failing to exhibit consideration for their neighbors. To add a layer of complexity, the law reserves the right to discriminate against me, or anyone, with a past history of criminal conduct, an unsettling reality I've grown to begrudgingly accept.

Yet, the truth cannot be ignored - discrimination prevails extensively in the United Kingdom. It's a phenomenon I've encountered from various quarters, and a recurring narrative among the testimonies I've heard from those struggling with mental health issues. These individuals share innumerable instances of discrimination and exploitation that they have tried to brush aside. Now, isn't it worth your while to ponder, wonder even, why those battling mental health issues often opt to retreat, rather than strive to participate actively in society?

Following my return to Becontree, I've found myself in a steadily inflating bubble of stress brought on by the perceived negligence of the Barking & Dagenham council. I swapped homes with a previous tenant whose good intentions were undermined by a dangerous lack of knowledge about home improvement. From the onset, a damp and mold issue surfaced, a problem that the council promptly dumped in my lap. Their apathy to my living situation appeared boundless, content as they were to continue receiving rent without concern for quality.

Everyone who visited my new place was quick to comment, and I couldn't disagree, that there was an unmistakable scent of dampness pervading from the bathroom that demanded immediate attention. Despite my eagerness to get to the root of this issue, the previous tenant's home improvement project - wood laminate covering every inch of the bathroom's walls and ceiling - had resulted in the council compelling me to assume responsibility for its maintenance. It was only in August 2018 that I finally embarked on the daunting assignment of removing these laminate surfaces. The sight which laid bare was nothing short of horrifying, exposing a task that was far beyond my capability. The lurking reality beneath the surface was a raw brick wall on one side, whilst the remaining walls bore traces of crumbling plaster, an unmistakeable red flag for dampness.

Back in September 2018, I was wrapping up the task of removing the remaining laminate coverings. Unbeknownst to me, a rogue pin had punctured the central heating pipe, leading to an unexpected and immediate leak. It turned into quite the domestic calamity. It was incredibly lucky for me that Rebecca's father, Andrew, happened to be present at the chaotic scene. He knew exactly how to replace the damaged part of the central heating pipe. We were left with no other option but to tackle this repair ourselves since it was a Saturday and we knew that calling the council for help would be futile.

Upon sharing the deplorable state of my bathroom with the council - backed by photographic evidence - they assigned a surveyor, Steve Jackson, to conduct an inspection. Unfortunately, Jackson continuously alluded to the removal of the laminate as being my error, failing to either recognize or admit to the presence of dampness, or its source. This kickstarted a pattern of dismissive behavior from the council; they saw my actions as negligence, continually assured me the repairs would be done, but failed to follow through. Frustrated with the six-month long runaround from the council, I sought out the services of a legal firm, ARKAS, regarding the neglect related to the property condition. Utilizing the tool that Jackson should have employed in his inspection, they confirmed the presence of dampness permeating the wall which explained the incessant plaster disintegration.

ARKAS, confident in our case, agreed to represent me on a contingency basis and immediately got to work addressing the negligence claim to the council. Part of this process included a complete house assessment by a certified surveyor—a true revelation, as I was oblivious to the fact that council surveyors typically lack such qualifications. The survey results—nothing short of a condemnation—evidenced the extensive harm incurred by the property due to the previous tenant's so-called "improvements". A litany of issues were enumerated: ground levels raised above the Damp Proof Course (DPC), possible asbestos presence, a deteriorating porch roof, and an urgent need for comprehensive renovation of the rainwater systems. The list trailed off into an abyss of problems—a broken waste pipe hidden in a wall, spilling wastewater back into the property, emerged as the root cause of the pervasive damp. This damage had rendered my house virtually uninhabitable.

Unexpectedly, Steve Jackson showed up at my property, making an unexpected proposition. Hoping to dissuade me from discountinuing involving lawyers, he suggested we bypass the legal process in return for immediate repair work. However, I was well aware of my rights. He assumed that I could settle for a home without a shower, but I knew better. I was legally entitled to fully functional facilities, including a proper shower, and I wasn't ready to compromise my rights for expedited repair work.

As the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve 2019, I finally had a refurbished bathroom and toilet, courtesy of my local council. You might applaud them, but save your applause. The wheels grind exceedingly slow here; it took them over a full year to complete the repairs from the moment I notified them - a clear case of legal negligence. Even my lawyers were left scratching their heads, dumbfounded by the council's blase attitude. They turned a blind eye to most of the issues, playing ditzy when confronted and hilariously incompetent at best. Seemingly, their modus operandi was to egregiously waste public funds while benefitting from such negligence. Yes, my bathroom and toilet sparkled after their long-overdue refurbishment, but the job remained half-done. Lingering snagging issues dangled unchecked, brushed under the carpet. Despite written pledges, the council turned a deaf ear towards executing any of the repairs spotlighted by the ace surveyor's report. I firmly believe that the public deserves to know about these examples of our council's gross dereliction of duty. What's even harder to swallow is the realization that it's us, the public, foot the bill for these colossal disrepair claims, all born from the council's apathy.

Regarding BD Group, the appointed repairs contractor, they took advantage of the COVID-19 pandemic but eventually got exposed. They pretended to address the pending repairs while having no real intention to begin the work. They wrongly gambled on an anticipated second lockdown. The delayed second lockdown by the Boris Johnson Government unveiled their deception.

Recently, the London Borough of Barking & Dagenham council attempted to initiate an eviction process through their subcontractors. However, they were confronted by the DeVos Report, which documented the appalling state of the property. The minimum estimate for rectifying these issues is £6,000. Although the claim was initially valued at £22,500, I proposed an out-of-court resolution with no compensation being due, I just wanted the repairs done.

Ultimately a former tenant has made structural changes to my property that has exposed it to movement in and around the stairwell. A support wall was removed and a beam put in its place but that beam is putting too much pressure on the front and rear of the property. I have external cracks on the front, really bad on the side and the rear of my home. Internally I have 3 ceiling cracks through a material identified as high risk asbestos by two surveyors.

Recently, I've realized that even if the Court granted my entire claim, it's not a victory—it's a hollow achievement. This situation reveals that in this convoluted scenario, I'm merely a pawn, while the council evades accountability. Despite their wrongdoing, they continue to ruin lives in an attempt to hide their misdeeds, believing they can deceive the judiciary. There's a pressing need for more decisive action against white-collar crime. These individuals may be human, but their unethical actions deserve consequences.

Reflecting on my move to Dagenham, I regret it deeply, despite the opinions of others that I should count my blessings. I was single-minded about the house and should have been more cautious when accepting the property. Unfortunately, the council avoided responsibility, choosing to twist the situation to their advantage rather than addressing their negligence. Hopefully, the Court will see things fairly and help restore balance to my life.

I regret letting the disrepair and the way it was managed impact my mental health. I should have found more strength in righteousness and forgiveness. The council doesn’t realize the harm they have done; those removed from the everyday struggles often cannot see beyond themselves. These individuals are blind to the needs and pains of others. I eagerly await the day I can finally say my home is whole again.

As I resettled in London, all I craved was a reboot—a chance to live a life of peace and legality. I was done with the rollercoaster of the past, eager to contribute meaningfully to society. The dream of homeownership was not just about owning a house, but about securing my financial future—a common dream, really. Yet, it seemed the universe had other plans for my so-called 'normal' life.

Having crossed the age threshold of 40 and having shared my life with Rebecca for over four years, I've come to a harsh realization. While the love we have for each other undoubtedly exists, its taste has transformed from the sweet flavor of being in love to something decidedly different – a love that resonates more like a comfortable friendship. It's not about casting blame or pointing fingers, but merely acknowledging that over time and due to reasons beyond our control, the storyiship we've created hasn't unfolded as intended. When our relationship sprung from a demanding time, a place where we were both desperately seeking companionship, it's clear now that our values, interests, or aspirations were never quite in sync. For far too many months, a bitter reality has been simmering just below the surface of our day-to-day interactions, a truth that neither of us has mustered the courage to confront.

Arriving at this crossroad wherein I am required to terminate this relationship is immeasurably challenging, likely the most strenuous undertaking I've ever faced. The aftermath will surely be heart-wrenching, yet, at my current age, I can't afford to infuse more time into this bond that just isn't flourishing. After spending the majority of my life searching for companionship, it's conceivable that I might be solitary for the remainder of my days. The longing to become a parent gnaws at me, but I’m cognizant of the fact, harsh as it may be, that my financial situation would restrict my ability to provide the life I would envisage for a child.

There are moments when early failures pave the way to prevent larger, life-changing disasters. I'm starting to accept the painful reality that becoming a father might not be in the cards for me. Though it's an emotional struggle, I find solace in the fact that I'm keeping myself away from imprisonment and overcoming substance abuse. While self-pride often eludes me, it shines through the eyes of my family, who recognize the immense efforts I put into living a life void of legal challenges and mental health issues.

Regret from past mistakes weighs heavily on me, but I've faced those repercussions head-on. In the journey of life, solitude is often my companion—sometimes by design, other times by fate. It’s not necessarily about others' aversion towards me; rather, it's a self-imposed safeguard—a gesture of goodwill perhaps—to shield others from potential pain.

Take Rebecca for example. Turning away from her could seem harsh, but deep down, I know it's a decision that benefits both of us, possibly her more so. And truthfully, isn't letting go off someone, encouraging them to take flight in their own life journey, and finding happiness for them a manifestation of true love?

Reflecting on my journey, I can't help but notice that wisdom often comes from tripping and getting back up again. Over time, I've realized that while love can be unpredictable, perhaps these repeated heartbreaks suggest that solitude might be my sanctuary. The end of my relationship with Rebecca hinted at the potential of a self-reliant future. Self-doubt has a way of sneaking in, questioning my decisions and intentions. Yet, I'm someone who wears my heart on my sleeve and has a quick temper, both a result of a life where the wrongs seemed to overshadow the rights. Despite this, I gave my all to life—the ups, downs, the good, and the bad—what more could anyone ask for? In our fast-paced, consumer-driven world, far too many end up as casualties, with wounds that are invisible but profoundly impactful. Shockingly, we're quick to turn away from those who need our assistance, all while waving anti-consumerist flags yet promoting self-interest. In a nation as affluent as ours, it’s quite telling that we struggle to provide adequate housing for everyone. Sadly, job security is not promised to all, and trying to make ends meet on a tight budget is a challenge all its own.

When you dare to confront societal challenges with determination, your actions make a difference. It’s about knowing that when you look back, you've truly given it your all. Though my experience is merely a slice of a larger picture, it unequivocally demonstrates the clear disconnect between the UK government and its citizens. There's an unsettling indifference that raises questions about their concern for the people. A perfect example of this detachment is their response to climate change. The government's priorities seem skewed towards maintaining an endless economic cycle rather than securing the planet's future. Together, we can overcome the hurdles that lie ahead, armed with resolve and steadfast perseverance. The satisfaction lies in knowing you've left no stone unturned. While my experiences might not encapsulate global challenges, within the UK context, I observe a distinct gulf between the government and its people. The government's apathy is palpable and seems to disregard pressing concerns. Their approach to the climate crisis lays bare a preference for relentless economic growth over preserving the environment that sustains us all.

Our social systems are crumbling—be it education, housing, or healthcare. What I observe daily isn't prosperity but unnecessary suffering, excessive spending, and mismanagement. Ignoring any part of our society undermines us all, highlighting the disconnect between government perceptions and our painful reality. True social change arises when we, as individuals, come together to demand more than just the current state of affairs.