My job as housing officer for a local authority in London keeps me awake with worry at night. I can see the system isn’t fair

'I tell a homeless 18-year-old he can't have a council house. I hate this part of the job'

Monday

I work as a housing officer for a local authority in London. My job is to interview homeless people and try and help them find a home.

I meet my first client of the day, who tells me she left her accommodation in Birmingham and is homeless. Apparently she was born and grew up in this borough, so in her opinion is entitled to a council house. I have to quickly condense the housing crisis and explain that’s not how it works anymore.

She stands up, slams my table and shouts that I am discriminating against British people and can’t do my job.

Security are nowhere to be found because they are busy with a woman in the queue who has fainted.

Tuesday

I’ve managed to secure my client a council house; they are like gold dust these days. All I need now is for them to view it and move in.

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The mother has severe undiagnosed mental health issues and suffers from frequent episodes of psychosis. She is a registered carer for her son, who has schizophrenia. I’ve spent the past six months trying to get social services to help but they say they can’t because the pair’s temporary accommodation is out of the borough.

I’ve booked them a taxi from their house to the viewing, and I’ve tried calling their phone several times but they haven’t picked up. What if they don’t get the message?

Wednesday

My colleague and I do some home visits this morning. One of my clients can barely walk and lives on the second floor, up 35 steps. There’s no lift. She has a degenerative back injury and is now dependent on a crutch. She has become housebound. I tell her I will do everything I can to move her.

The waiting list is long for a two-bedroom flat – more than four years – but it’s even longer for a ground-floor property. I speak to my manager to see if we can prioritise her case. She says it’s unlikely and I am upset there is nothing more I can do.

Thursday

A young guy comes in with his uncle. He tells me his grandmother asked him to leave the house today and he has nowhere to live. His uncle, with him for emotional support, pleads with me. He says his nephew is a vulnerable young man sleeping in his car and needs housing. I take a deep breath and tell him I will call the grandmother to try and persuade her to let him stay in the property until we find some alternative accommodation in the private sector.

His uncle is confused. “Can’t you provide anything tonight for him?” he asks. “He’s only 18.”

My heart sinks. This is the part of the job I hate. I explain that he does not meet the requirements for temporary accommodation as he is an adult in good health.

The client becomes angry - he only turned 18 two months ago and he says that the system isn’t fair. I agree.

Rage turns to tears and the boy leaves. The uncle locks eyes with me and says: “If a brick flies through his windshield in the middle of the night and cracks his head open, that’s on you, love.”

Feeling guilty and disheartened, I am consoled by my colleagues at the pub. Later I lie awake thinking and worrying. Am I actually helping anyone?

Friday

The mother and son from Tuesday missed the viewing but they’re here now and I’ve rearranged my day so they can move into their new home. The only problem is that they have no furniture. I spend an hour frantically calling different companies to make sure they can move in with a bed, table, fridge, cooker and washing machine. I’m not sure how the council expects people with no money to be able to afford these things, but they’ve got it now and they’ve moved in. Happy days!

Thank the Lord it’s payday. Pub? Again?

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