Eventually we were allocated a two-bedroom flat in an awful tower block in Camberwell – “Asbestos Towers” they should have called it. The sun must have been shining exceptionally brightly the day we went to look at it because the drum didn’t seem at all bad, even if the lift was being used by families who believed they should have two kazies and that this could serve as their second one.

It was, though, a legal tenancy and my name was written in blood on the front of the rent book. Unlike previously, when I didn’t really have a leg to stand on, me plates of meat were now planted firmly on the floor and I had rights as solid as the Bank of England vaults. When my rent book was issued to me it had a copy of the tenancy agreement in it. I read it thoroughly, once, twice, three times for luck, to ensure that I fully understood every twist

of the rules and regulations. I just love reading the small print and long ago learned

that the essence of winning disputes is to know every inch of the ground you are standing on – an approach which, if it was good enough for Monty against the Afrika Corps, is good enough for me against all the little Hitlers I come up against in my frequent brushes with authority.

Unfortunately, I had to deal with the same housing office where I had asked for the door of my squat to be repaired, which meant they were always on guard against me pulling a stroke. They might have been thick, but not that thick. On the other hand, like most bureaucrats, they worked to patterns as predictable as an ‘East Enders’ script and I’d quickly learned to read their card. We’d even got onto first name terms and I knew how to butter them up, pretending an interest in the things they like talking about, which are mainly bingo, what has been on the box and isn’t it terrible all these spongers who they have to deal with?

I was a frequent visitor – surely qualifying for the council’s equivalent of air-miles with my regular attempts to sort out minor niggles, like people piling rubbish up outside my garage (which I wasn’t paying rent for anyway!) or why the rubbish chute was always blocked.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again (and, if needs be, once more after that)” is the guiding principal of dealing with councils.