They’re all for housing…
in principle.
They’ll clap for nurses,
in theory.
They’ll nod at the telly when someone says
“we need more homes.”
But not here.
Not on our street.
Not where the bins go.

They’ll say:
It’s not the flats, it’s the traffic.
It’s not the families, it’s the parking.
It’s not the poor, it’s the planning.
It’s not the change, it’s the character.

They’ll fight tooth and leaflet
to keep the skyline nostalgic,
the neighbours familiar,
the problems elsewhere.

They’ll say:
We’re full.
We’re quiet.
We’re not like those estates.
We’ve got heritage.
We’ve got hedges.

But the city doesn’t care for cul-de-sacs of sentiment.
It grows.
It shifts.
It remembers who said no.

And one day,
when their grown-up children
can’t afford to live
within three postcodes of home,
they’ll wonder
why the welcome mat
was only ever decorative.

You can’t solve a housing crisis
with a petition and a picket fence.