Coming shortly…. This is a placeholder for an article which is to be published soon as an appendix to a peer reviewed paper submitted to the PRISM Journal and presented at the 2020 Working Class Academics conference. The paper submitted to PRISM is called ‘The Tragedy of the Commons People: A Marmot Overview’ and lays out a perspective on how ‘workingclassness’ can be interpreted as being on a spectrum of having to perform to gain access to sufficiency, the mechanics of a hierarchy of permissions and allowances, the psychology of exclusion, and the effects on life expectancy and health as drawn from Michael Marmot‘s work. Read more
The story of Burston….The Burston School strike began before the outbreak of World War 1 when Annie (Kitty) and Tom Higdon were sacked after a dispute with the local school management committee. It did not end until the first skirmishes of World War 2 per taking place. As a response to being dismissed Annie Higdon was to set up a marquee on the local village green where local children – many who came from poor agricultural working backgrounds – would be taught. Read more
In the evening of the following day, the Nephew called at my lodgings to arrange for the funeral. He wished it to be on Saturday afternoon; and we appointed three o’clock. And his desire was, that the grave should be as near where his Uncle used to sit in Chapel as could be.
The New Year 1839, opened with a glorious sun-rise; bright and clear. The frost was intense; but there was a dryness in the air which made it pleasant and refreshing. John Pounds was up long before the sun; cooking hot breakfasts; and taking them round to poor sufferers in back courts and alleys. Read more
Monday evening; – the last evening in the year: – meeting John Pounds in St. Mary’s Street, as he was crossing over into Crown Street; – “Yer sarvant, Sir! – Sharp frost!” “Yes, Mr. Pounds; but you don’t seem to feel it much; with your bare arms, and open chest, and no hat on!” “I likes it! It makes me feel fresh and brisk like! I’se been to the King’s Bastion, to see the sun set: – the last sun, you know, Sir, in the old year. He goes down very grand; all crimson and gold: – bright – to the last!” Read more
One bitterly cold night in December, an esteemed member of my Flock, Mr Frank Faulkner, called upon me. He had driven the Rocket from London to Portsmouth that day, in the face of cutting sleet; but he came in with a countenance and manner so full of generous interest, that there was no appearance of weariness or fatigue. Read more