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Authors: George Orwell
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racket, making sleep impossible. So far as my observation
goes, no one in a lodging-house sleeps more than five hours
a night—a damnable swindle when one has paid seven-
pence or more.
Here legislation could accomplish something. At present
there is all manner of legislation by the L.C.C. about lodg-
ing-houses, but it is not done in the interests of the lodgers.
The L.C.C. only exert themselves to forbid drinking, gam-
bling, fighting, etc. etc. There is no law to say that the beds
in a lodging-house must be comfortable. This would be
quite an easy thing to enforce—much easier, for instance,
than restrictions upon gambling. The lodging-house keep-
ers should be compelled to provide adequate bedclothes
and better mattresses, and above all to divide their dormi-
tories into cubicles. It does not matter how small a cubicle
is, the important thing is that a man should be alone when
he sleeps. These few changes, strictly enforced, would make
an enormous difference. It is not impossible to make a
lodging-house reasonably comfortable at the usual rates of
payment. In the Groydon municipal lodging-house, where
the charge is only ninepence, there are cubicles, good beds,
chairs (a very rare luxury in lodging-houses), and kitchens
above ground instead of in a cellar. There is no reason why
every ninepenny lodging-house should not come up to this
standard.
Of course, the owners of lodging-houses would be op-
posed EN BLOC to any improvement, for their present
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business is an immensely profitable one. The average house
takes five or ten pounds a night, with no bad debts (credit
being strictly forbidden), and except for rent the expenses
are small. Any improvement would mean less crowding,
and hence less profit. Still, the excellent municipal lodg-
ing-house at Croydon shows how well one CAN be served
for ninepence. A few well-directed laws could make these
conditions general. If the authorities are going to concern
themselves with lodging-houses at all, they ought to start
by making them more comfortable, not by silly restrictions
that would never be tolerated in a hotel.
Down and Out in Paris and London
XXXVIII
After we left the spike at Lower Binfield, Paddy and I
earned half a crown at weeding and sweeping in some-
bodyss garden, stayed the night at Cromley, and walked
back to London. I parted from Paddy a day or two later. B.
lent me a final two pounds, and, as I had only another eight
days to hold out, that was the end of my troubles. My tame
imbecile turned out worse than I had expected, but not bad
enough to make me wish myself back in the spike or the Au-
berge de Jehan Cottard.
Paddy set out for Portsmouth, where he had a. friend
who might conceivably find work for him, and I have never
seen him since. A short time ago I was told that he had been
run over and killed, but perhaps my informant was mixing
him up with someone else. I had news of Bozo only three
days ago. He is in Wandsworth—fourteen days for begging.
I do not suppose prison worries him very much.
My story ends here. It is a fairly trivial story, and I can
only hope that it has been interesting in the same way as
a travel diary is interesting. I can at least say, Here is the
world that awaits you if you are ever penniless. Some days
I want to explore that world more thoroughly. I should like
to know people like Mario and Paddy and Bill the mooch-
er, not from casual encounters, but intimately; I should like
to understand what really goes on in the souls of PLON-
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GEURS and tramps and Embankment sleepers. At present I
do not feel that I have seen more than the fringe of poverty.
Still I can point to one or two things I have definitely
learned by being hard up. I shall never again think that all
tramps are drunken scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be
grateful when I give him a penny, nor be surprised if men
out of work lack energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation
Army, nor pawn my clothes, nor refuse a handbill, nor en-
joy a meal at a smart restaurant. That is a beginning.
THE END
Down and Out in Paris and London