Dear Director of Housing at the Council

Thank you for confirming that “human impact isn't a consideration” when planning and costing building works on your housing estates.

I’d hosted a meeting at my flat the Friday before last. The Council vs the leaseholders. Three officials representing different departments in the huge mess of a local authority: Mr Repairs, Ms Collections and Ms Housing. Four of my neighbours – leaseholders like me who’ve been landed with a bill of £58,500. And of course, my partner and me.

It was a squeeze to get everyone in my living room, which has one L-shaped sofa and a small Formica dining table with four chairs around it. When I spoke, I could see Mr Repairs looking at the wall behind my head, where a dozen photos of my two children were displayed in a big Ikea frame. 

When I asked at what point the Council considers the impact of repairs programmes on leaseholders, also known as human beings, Ms Housing replied instantly that they don’t. They didn’t do it because they didn’t have to. I’d switched my phone’s audio recorder on before they arrived. I really thought I was on to something significant: an admission that the Council don’t think about how a bill for £58,500 might affect the recipients. Not before, during or after the works. Ms Housing said it with such blasé confidence, as if it was a line from a play that she knew by heart. I shook my head slowly, unable to find a riposte. I might have cried at this point were it not for the fact she was perched awkwardly on my son’s wooden highchair, which was the only seat available. 

Later that day, when I emailed a higher-up to divulge my scoop, Ms Head of Home Ownership replied confirming it in writing: “Human impact isn't a consideration.” 

Thank you for confirming you have made no steps to ensure leaseholders understand a) the contents of this notice of estimate, and b) its implications.

Every time I tell someone the amount they say, “Whoa, and how much does that work out per flat?” This is a reasonable response, because what’s not reasonable is getting a bill through your letterbox for £58,500. For some of my neighbours who aren’t fluent in English or legalese, it can be hard to grasp the significance. It’s as if they worded the letter to be as unclear as possible. My 82-year-old neighbour from number 35 didn’t get it. I mean, literally. He said he’d never received the letter. Sat next to him on my sofa, I pointed out the total amount at the bottom of the page, circling my finger around the biggest figure. He then didn’t get it for a second time. 

“What’s that? Who’s paying that?”

Thank you for confirming you did not a) speak to residents before deciding on the works that needed to be carried out, b) explain why they were necessary, or c) make any attempt to listen to concerns residents may have.

My fellow leaseholders and I, we are not wealthy people. Let’s face it, if I had a spare 58 grand knocking around, I’d have bought a freehold house rather than an ex-council flat in a run-down estate. A bill of this size for people like us is life-changing. For some people it can be life-ruining.

Florrie’s Law is supposed to stop the life-ruining part. It's a relatively recent piece of legislation that caps the amount councils and housing associations can charge London homeowners for building works to £15,000 every five years. It’s named after Florence Bourne. Aged 93, having never been in debt in her life, she received a £50,000 bill from Newham Council for a new roof. Soon after, she had a heart attack and died. Her family said she “died of shame”. Turns out the roof didn’t need to be replaced after all. 

Thank you for confirming you have not checked to see if any residents are vulnerable in any way. Thank you also for confirming that no support is available for residents who may be severely affected, mentally or physically, by this bill of £58,500.

Having established that the Council doesn’t consider the impact of works or costs on residents, I enquired about follow-up support ‘in the event of severe psychological impact. Ms Home Ownership replied that there wasn’t any. 

“This is not a service we provide.” 

I was thinking of myself, but also my family, my neighbours, and all the other leaseholders up and down the country getting fleeced by near-bankrupt councils, and greedy freeholders and managing agents. I was thinking of Florence Bourne. 

The thing is, Florrie’s Law only applies to building work paid for by certain central government funds. Ms Collections couldn’t wait to point out that the legislation didn’t apply in our situation. Apparently, the Council is funding our works. Well, the Council together with us leaseholders. In which case, paying tens of thousands of pounds over five years is deemed completely reasonable.

Thank you for sharing a copy of the income expenditure form which must be completed to prove exceptional hardship, in the event that residents aren’t in a position to repay over five years at £980 a month. I notice the planner requests that we declare our monthly expenditure on cigarettes and alcohol, as well as ‘court fines’.

The Council’s selection of itemised expenditure should have surprised me more than it did. I don’t smoke and I’ve never been to court. The amount I spend on alcohol is not what’s stopping me from having a spare £980 a month. My children’s music and sports classes cost a lot more than a few bottles of wine, but I’ll have to include these in the ‘other’ box. They don’t think our expenditure looks like that. You can tell by the way they communicate that they think you’re a certain kind of person. A person far away from power and choices. They refer to us as ‘lessees’ – it’s about as close to ‘lesser’ as you can get.

Thank you for agreeing to provide a breakdown of service charges so I can try to understand the 150% increase despite the fact the estate has fallen into a state of disrepair.

For years we’ve been complaining that the estate is falling apart and for years we’ve been fobbed off. Our monthly charges soar while the building crumbles. There’s no doubt about it: the extent of repairs needed are the result of insufficient maintenance over the years – maintenance we pay for with our service charges. Since 2021, scaffolding has been preventing our walkway from collapsing after I gave a manual demonstration of the wobbly balustrade to a contractor who happened to be passing through on another job. 

On one site visit, Mr Asset Management told me, “It’s really not that bad compared to some of the other blocks in the borough. You should see the state of them.” I felt insulted, and I told him so. He asked for advice on how to communicate bad news to residents. After I gave him some, free of charge, he stopped replying to my emails. He ignored my advice, too.  

Thank you for explaining I’ll need to submit a freedom of information request to find out whether other estates in the borough have received bills as high as this, and how much you’ve spent on defending complaints at Tribunal level.

Every morning I scroll through the National Leaseholders Campaign group on Facebook. There are 33,000 members. The posts become familiar after a while –“I feel like such a fool for buying my leasehold flat.” “Can they really charge this much?” “It’s like I’m a prisoner in my own home.” 

That’s the crux of it for me. I spent my life’s savings on this property. My savings, not my parents’, because they never had any. But I’m not really a home-owner - the freeholder is. In my case, that’s the Council, also known as a ‘social landlord’ (which sounds a lot more avuncular than it is).   

The word ‘freehold’ means ‘permanent and absolute tenure of property with freedom to dispose of it at will’. 

I’ll continue to challenge these exorbitant proposed costs as well as what we consider to be a dereliction of contractual duty. Not everyone is in a position to navigate this untransparent, complex and stressful process. My neighbours and fellow leaseholders consent to me challenging this injustice on their behalf. I’ll be in touch shortly with next steps.

Regards,
Rebecca White

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