As a Londoner from the west side, I first went to Spitalfields in 1963 (thanks to an art school party), yearned to live there, and finally made it in early 1969, to a tiny (but pleasant) room at the top of 12 Fournier Street, sublet by a friend. (Someone had told me back in ’63 that a weaver’s apprentice used to sleep there). By the end of the year, I’d moved to larger rooms there & in no 10, then moved in with my new boyfriend to a really big one; an ex-furriery workshop at ‘The Stables’, behind 33 Folgate Street. (Needing a street number for the bills when he had a phone put in, he chose the most logical one, 33⅓ Folgate Street, despite the protests of the GPO’s new computer!).
I can send more description if you’re interested, and/or some 1960s/70s photos of Spitalfields I’m scanning. But briefly, 33 was an empty end-of-terrace house on the north side of Folgate Street, with its own lane at the side to a row of old stables behind, rented by little one-man businesses. The furriery place was one of a pair of workshops on top of them. It ended in an empty yard (with traces of previous buildings). One of our windows had a view over it (and other unbuilt spaces) of the houses of Fleur De Lys Street (another one where some artists had chosen to live).
Officially, 33⅓ was only a studio (not for living in), so I can’t imagine we could have been sitting tenants. But we were still harrassed into leaving the next year, along with the other Stables people (and there was no easy way to check out the situation in those days). There was no proper procedure. Just little things like being woken in the small hours by bright light through the big window our bed was against, & seeing the main house in flames a few yards away (thanks to that phone, the Fire Brigade stopped it before our place and the stables went up as well). And the time a lorry driver chose that precise spot to have a careless moment, & broke the power cable to the Stables.
We two were able to cope ok without electricity, and held out longer than the others, but it seemed a good idea to find somewhere else to live, and we did (back in Fournier St). The next we knew, everything behind no. 33 had disappeared (hastily demolished before some enthusiast with any power noticed it and got it preserved, we concluded). The sadness and anger still hasn’t gone away. Even in these upmarket days I can imagine the place still in use, e.g. as an enclave for little craft shops etc, with shared workspace above. Easy security at night, even, with the high wall that ran along the other side of the lane; just add a gate, & maybe get the house lived in again…..
But that’s spilt milk now (sorry about the rambling!).
Back then, we ordinary citizens didn’t have much influence on the powers-that-be (or the information to), and the preservation movement was just a fledgeling one back then. Over the years, campaigners like yourself have improved the situation immensely.
I’m living in Ireland now, so probably don’t have any voice in the matter, but I’m behind you all the way. I don’t want to see yet another bit of my London destroyed next time I’m there!