When I arrived at Tolmers I had dropped out of college and didn’t really have any direction. I knew I didn’t want to go back to my home town – mumblefuck nowheresville. Instead, Paul offered me a bed in a room in a house in the centre of London, 102 Drummond Street. A shared room in a shared house. A squat. I didn’t even know what that meant. I had to look it up – in the days before Google. Encyclopaedia Brittanica in those days. I discovered that as a squatter – I had rights. In the ground floor of the house used to be an old dairy shop. The local residents’ association formed, stripped out the dairy and took up residency. The rooms filled one by one. All sorts. They were big houses. 102 Drummond Street had not only water and services – a luxury not afforded to many of the squats. We had gas and electricity and a separate bathroom outbuilding in the basement. People would be pounding on the door at any time of day or night sometimes demanding as if by right or agreement their entitlement to a hot bath. There was always an uneasy tension between residents and squatters. Some more than others. These were my formative years. My politics and beliefs were forged in this crucible of refined differences and similarities. I learnt how and when to be open and accepting. And discerning. Talk about the university of life…..I was having the best of times and worst of times. And everything in between.

Tolmers Village turned into a magnet. There were people from all over the country and all over the world. Some stayed longer than others. And there were the residents and traders. Some stayed longer than others. All sorts of beliefs. All sorts of directions. Quite chaotic and often traumatic. Life and death – on the carpet. Often conflict. There were people who were genuinely certifiable. And others genuinely dangerous. On the other hand, there were people who were genuinely looking for an alternative way of life. People who were transacting in different ways. Radical and different ways. In those times of peace, love and litter. It was a refuge for us all. I was only ever passing through. Like most. It was a gravitational hub for protest and dissent. Don’t let them do it to us – was the rally cry.

And there were the drugs. You could get anything and everything – often pharmaceutical grade. My mum always said to me – don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. In an endeavour to get me to experiment and be open to experience. And so I did. I was open to it all.

There was always a very distinct tension with the police. These were the days of the beginning of community out-reach. So we had our local bobby – Norman. The activity of squatting was not an illegal act back then. There was still breaking and entering, being caught in an enclosed space, going equipped, etc, etc. and we were organised. There were dozens of houses in the village alone that were squatted over the years. Thousands in Camden. There was a real political movement. There were people making this happen. A dedicated crew with crowbars and replacement locks. And there were vested interests who didn’t like it. What started as a battle against Joe Levy to stop him building another Capital Radio turned into a battle with Camden Council to provide adequately for the residents and squatters.

Personally, I was treated very well in the end by Camden Council. By my housing manager – a Mr Ken Livingstone. And that’s why he’s the only politician I have ever voted for. And he will get my vote every time.

My enduring memories of Tolmers will be sitting in Alex’s sauna with the car park empty for some reason and the Euston Road being packed with commuters who were more than slightly bemused and embarrassed to be watching me take a sauna. I remember having a very strong feeling that one of us was doing something very wrong. Something to be very ashamed of. And I’m sure as shit it wasn’t me – to this day.

Read more about the author Tim Davies