MY FIRST EXPERIENCE working in social housing was in 1999, in Manchester, where I worked as an administrator in a Housing Office. By the end of my first day, I felt as though I had found my calling. Reflecting over 25 years later, I realise now that my own personal ‘housing story’ has profoundly shaped why social housing is not just my career, but also part of my identity.

In 1984, my dad moved from Cork to London with me and my three siblings, aged between nine and 13. At that time, being a single father was unusual, and, looking back, I am still amazed at how he coped. Previously, he had built his own home, run a hugely successful business, and had a happy family life. Suddenly, he faced the challenge of raising four children alone in a new country, without a home and livelihood.

Before our move, my dad secured accommodation in the private rental sector, only for it to fall through when we arrived. We were left homeless and were housed temporarily by the local authority in emergency Bed & Breakfast accommodation in Waterloo.

My dad applied for social housing, but because he declared ownership of a house in Ireland, he was deemed ineligible. The home he once owned was now occupied by my mum, and, since divorce was not recognised in Ireland at the time, he was caught in a limbo.

For nine months, we lived in a single room, sharing a bathroom with about twenty other people. It was an incredibly challenging time. I remember my dad making repeated visits to Southwark Council’s Housing Office pleading his case for housing, as well as daily trips to the red telephone box making phone calls to either the council or private landlords. Then one day, he jumped out of the red phone box and shouted, “We’ve got a place! We’ve got a place kids!”

The flat we were offered was just off East Street market, South East London, in an estate which had high crime rates and in need of repair, and yet for us, it felt like a........

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