LSE Diary, Wednesday, 10th. March 1976

As the day started it became clear to me that something was not quite right, but I had no idea at the time of how events would play out – and how they would affect me to this day.

First thing in the morning I could hear my flatmate engaged in a heated discussion with our landlady. I did not know what the argument was about, other than it was likely to relate to our accommodation in some way.

Since moving to London in 1975 I had lived in Halls of Residence, specifically Carr-Saunders in Fitzrovia, which was then, and remains now, one of my favourite places in London. You may not know of Fitzrovia, but it is essentially the area on the northern side of Oxford Street and Soho, bounded on the east by Tottenham Court Road.

After some time in Halls I was encouraged by a friend to find ‘private’ accommodation. He and his girlfriend were keen to live together in something that might be considered closer to a ‘home’, and I think that me joining them meant we could find a 2-bed flat and share the rent as well as other expenses.

Looking back, it seems to me that agreeing to this may have been a mistake on my part. I had never lived anywhere other than with my parents prior to moving to London, so Halls of Residence was indeed a safe and inexpensive option, especially for my first year at University.

After overhearing the argument, and not really knowing what it was about, I carried on about my day as usual. On the 55 bus from Clapton (London E5) to King’s for a statistics lecture, then a quick visit over the road to the LSE before setting off to meet my good friend Jackie at Bedford College in Regent’s Park.

From there I walked back to the Aldwych to get the 55 bus home. I did not get any uni work done this evening. Instead I was discussing ‘the accommodation problem’ with my flatmate and his girlfriend. It transpired that earlier this evening he had been to a solicitor, who apparently advised us to go to the Rent Tribunal in order to secure a rent reduction. The solicitor suggested £4 per week but my flatmates thought £5.50 a more reasonable figure.

Who was I to disagree? As a working class son in a family of six in a council house in Devon I had no knowledge or experience of solicitors, rent tribunals or any of the other trappings of what I was swiftly learning were ‘normal’ for those from a middle-class background. I was out of my depth, and in all honesty had no idea what was going on. I felt – and indeed was – naive.

I generalise of course. However, as I got to bed at a quarter past midnight I felt slightly nervous. I had no idea how events would turn out in the next few days and weeks, or of the difficulties and suffering that I would face.

To be continued…