Visit a bar, restaurant or pub in Stoke Newington and you could be greeted by a young woman with an east European accent. She may also smile, which is a bit of a shock to the system, used as we are to the grumpy British 'who's next?' school of bartending. The Poles have arrived. Szczecin has come to Stokey.

They are probably among the best educated bar staff in Britain. Many already have degrees and are here to improve their English and continue their studies before they return home; others are looking to make some money, as there is 30 per cent unemployment between the ages of 18 and 30 in Poland. Being young, bright and good looking means that often they attract the attention of lads on the pull. It's not always a meeting of minds. Typically: 'Can I help you?' 'Three pints of Stella... Er, where you from?' 'Poland.' 'Is that part of Russia?' 'No.' 'Do you have television there?' 'Yes, we do.' 'So what's Poland famous for?' 'What do you mean?' 'Well, like the Swiss, the cuckoo clock and that.' 'Excuse me, I'll get your drinks.'

Less visible are the construction workers who are being recruited directly from Poland and who are filling a large gap in the UK labour market. There also hundreds working as cleaners, often doing two or three jobs a day and sharing rooms. Many news agents' notice boards in Hackney have cards written in Polish advertising accommodation. There is no doubt that these hardworking young people are open to exploitation by unscrupulous employers acting illegally. Some are paid below the minimum wage (currently £4.50 an hour) but don't feel confident enough to complain. Far from the tabloids' lurid fantasies of people flooding in from eastern Europe to live off benefits, these newcomers look after themselves - and each other - while addingto the local economy.

Living in rural Oxfordshire - a long time ago - the only foreigners we ever met were
Americans from the nearby air base. We did however have our resident Pole. Jozef ('Joe') was a Spitfire pilot who had fought in the Battle of Britain and shot down a number of enemy planes. He hadn't received any medals, as it was not then official policy to acknowledge the contribution of Polish and Czech aircrew to the war effort. All our heroes of the air were supposed to be stiff upper lipped Englishmen who, when pressed, would talk modestly about downing a few Huns before tea.

Joe wasn't like that. He liked a drink, possessed a large  number of photos showing him with his Spitfire, and was happy to tell anybody who would listen about his exploits. That was rather hard going, as he was much better at flying a plane than speaking English. Everybody liked him but his popularity was not so much due to the fact that he helped save Britain from the Nazi threat but, more importantly, he was the goalkeeper for the village football team. Joe had a short fuse and a few games were interrupted by a fistfight between him and an opposing forward. We enjoyed this more than the match as both sets of supporters would form a circle and encourage their man. The ref would wait until it was over - no serious damage was ever done - and then restart the game.

Joe was due to be evicted from his house by the farmer who had decided to dismiss him. In those days, the 'tied cottage' system meant that if you lost your job, you also lost your accommodation. On the day of the eviction, a crowd had gathered on the street corner opposite his small house. There were no posters, no shouting and no police. The village constable also played in the football team. The Roman Catholic priest, Father O'Reilly, was there, dressed as if for mass and the Church of England vicar was present to see 'fair play' as he had put it in his sermon on the previous Sunday. The priest had come to help Joe, a fellow Catholic, in his hour of need.

The farmer arrived with a lorry and half a dozen of his employees. As he approached the house door, Joe appeared at the upstairs window: 'You can fuck off!' he shouted, plus something in Polish, then lifted a bucket of water onto the sill. As the farmer raised the doorknocker, he looked up at the window and received a soaking on his face and shoulders. Joe slammed the window shut. The farmer was drenched but not deterred. He beckoned his labourers forward but they didn't move. Four big men from the crowd, veterans of many a village tug-of-war contest, took his arms and legs and carried him back to the lorry, opening the door and assisting him into the cab.

Joe was never evicted; he stayed in the same house and three weeks later started work in a better-paid job at the Morris Motors factory in Cowley. It's a long way - and time - from rural England to inner-city London but perhaps some Anglo-Polish principles of mutual support remain the same.