Happy Fucking Xmas

I fucking hate December. I always have and always will. All that forced joviality, all that near panicked fun. Gotta have fun, it's CHRISTMAS!!! Season of peace and goodwill to all apparently. Time for family.

Give me a fucking break.

Seriously, if you can't have fun without it being an arbitrary date in a calendar I feel sorry for your friendships. It blatantly isn't peaceful and there is no goodwill. As for family, if you can't make each other feel special and loved all year then there is no hope for humanity.

All my worst things have happened in December. I met my first husband. The one who turned out to be gay and took my kids from me. Which was also in December as it happens.

I met my second husband in December. Not that this was a bad thing. I don't regret being married to him for nearly 10 years, but we met on xmas eve. Which will sully it forever now.

When I was 15 I had a nervous breakdown. I spent 3 weeks in the corner of my bedroom rocking while my mum refused to get medical help and my sister spat at me and kicked me for my 'weakness'.

Guess which month it was?

And today, I have given up something totally precious to me. Something beautiful and pure that made me happier than I have ever been. I gave it up for the right reasons and I really hope that it comes back to me. I'll be waiting and hoping.

At some point today I might even stop crying.

So excuse me if I don't want to take part in your fucking festivities.

I don't want to wear a party hat and fucking tinsel. I don't want to pull a fucking cracker and fake laugh at the stupid crappy joke.

Excuse me if I just lock myself away for xmas and new year and talk to nobody. Excuse me if I emerge slightly more jaded than last year.

I got a broken heart again this year. Fuck xmas.

Scabs Make Me Fucking Itch!

Well, we're coming up to another strike. Bigger than June 30th, the Public Sector strike due on 30th November will be bigger and better, leaner and meaner, stronger and... well you get the point.

With just over a week to go the predictable onslaught from the media has started. I didn't quite win the sweepstake as to when the 'Look! Yeah, you! See, union bosses get paid properly for what they do!' stories would hit the tabloids, but I was only out by a day.

And the infighting has started too. Like Harry Enfield's builders only in Che Guevara t shirts, we witness the 'I am considerably more socialist than you.' arguments. We define terms and divide ourselves. Seriously, it bores and angers me in equal measure. We don't win anything by fighting amongst ourselves, we win by organising. (With apologies to anarchists. See, can't bloody win.)

Then the excuses as to why some won't stand up in solidarity with those of us actually prepared to fight for our pensions start pouring forth. Like a fetid stream full of the rotting corpses of unity we hear them all.

Then we have the fight about terminology (Scab is my preferred word for those who cross a picket line, though cunt will suffice) and the bullying of the poor loves. We should just let them get on with it apparently. They have their 'reasons' by all accounts. And to pull them up on them is wrong. And it makes us bullies.

Let me make it very clear, I do not in any way condone actual physical violence towards scabs though I totally understand the compulsion.

(See previous blog 'A Scab By Any Other Name Still Stinks)

But for fuck's sake, give me a fucking break! These are not poor little delicate flowers. These are scabs who undermine everything we are fighting for and yet will reap rewards when we win victories.

They seem to have no problem with violence towards us on picket lines as they drive at us, squeeze their water bottles at us and spit at us. So excuse me if I don't want to afford them any niceties.

Fuck them. If they are going to cross picket lines they should have the balls to stand on their blacklegs, admit they're scabs and take the fucking derision due them from proper trade unionists who understand the word solidarity.

And The Laughter Returns

Went out for a meal and a chat with estranged hubby tonight. For him this meant getting dressed and turning up, for me it threw up all sorts of questions.

Do I wear make up? Do I get dressed up? Do my hair? What do I want my outfit to say? Do I want it to say 'look at what you're missing' or more 'we can do this, we can be civil with each other again'?

In the end I went for smart top, skinny black jeans, pirate boots, make up and hair looking gooood. I had decided I wanted my outfit to say 'fuck it, it has been an age since I went out anywhere really nice, I want to feel lovely for a change.'

So, met up with estranged hubby and things were a little strained to say the least. Those of you who know me personally know that things have been horrendous and that I have been quite ill with the stress of it all. Those of you who don't know me personally still know that it hasn't been easy lately with me and him.

So, his plan was to take me to a nice Indian restaurant and we could just spend some time together on neutral ground. So far so good. The one flaw in this plan is that he let me choose the restaurant.

I should never be allowed to choose the restaurant.

He was going to take me to a really nice one called 'Chillicha'. I thought it looked a 'bit poncey' so plumped for 'Curryland'. I should have known really.

First thing I had to do was take my glasses off as the place was so badly ventilated that they steamed up. Then we sat down. Waitress comes over and her first question wasn't 'can I get you any drinks?' but 'How was your day?' I have to say I was somewhat thrown by this and felt under pressure to say it was great. I felt I would have let her down if I had said I had spent most of it in bed with a hangover. She seemed really nice so I didn't want to disappoint her.

I went for the buffet and a large coke. Waitress said she would tell me when the buffet was ready. She went over and stirred stuff. Then came over and said it was ready. I started to giggle.

My meal then consisted of:

The stalest poppadum I have ever had. They are not supposed to be bendy! This was served with the smallest onion salad ever made and the most watered down mango chutney I have ever seen. You are not supposed to be able to drink mango chutney Curryland. You're just not!

The reddest curry ever. Not sure what it was. It tasted of nothing. Not even of red.

Korma that seemed to not have any almond in.

Madras that wasn't too bad actually if you ignored the fact that I crunched down on something that I refused to investigate for the fear it would be something dreadful. I just swallowed. This has always stood me in good stead before and it worked this time.

All this time me and estranged hubby were smiling and laughing. Giggling like idiots at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. We then noticed the 'decor'. It looked as if a disinterested child had done it.

So now I really started to lose it laughing. And watching the rough and ready of Worthing stagger in clutching their own booze and saying things like 'I might go for something different tonight' before going for the buffet just made me laugh even more.

And then hubby went to the toilet. This was his face when he came back.

He doesn't always look that red by the way. It was just that hot and humid in there. Anyhoo, apparently if he had been to the loo first he wouldn't have let us eat there. When even the handwash is grubby, there is a problem.

But none of that was the point. We had a laugh. Something we hadn't done together for a good couple of years. Doubled over laughing. It felt good. You never know, there might be light at the end of the tunnel after all.

Today Of All Days

Today I woke up to the news that the government were about to make an enhanced offer on public sector pensions.

On the day before the biggest union (Unison) are due to announce their ballot result.

Coincidence? I think not.

But this blog isn't about how they're running scared and are starting the divide and rule propaganda war between the unions. It isn't that at all. It is about why I will be striking.

I was musing about what I was going to write when I came across this.

It is simple and stunning and needs to be shared with all union members and used to recruit those that aren't.

If I ever meet the author I will give him a big kiss for being so beautifully moving and so simply eloquent.

Steven North hits the nail on the head: "I could argue that the reason I'm prepared to strike on the 30th is because my pension fund is a sustainable one that requires no increase in contributions, except to return more money to a Treasury that is already taxing me to death every time I fill my car up but refuses to allocate me a pay rise. I could say that it's because its unfair to ask me to work until I'm 68 when I live in an area where male life expectancy is still only 70. I could say that we went through discussions around accrual rates a few years ago and were told that changes had been made to make our pension fund sustainable for a generation. In reality though I'm striking because I don't want to die in a freezing cold flat 2 years after I retire after a lifetime in work. If any other working man or woman wants to be equally as selfish and pay no regard to the difficult decisions our Government has to make, I'll happily stand next to you."

Here's to you Steven North. You put it better than I could have.

I Would Do Anything For Love. Including That.

This one is for you Serena. You beautiful, intelligent, wonderful creature you.

Lately I have been musing on love and what it means.

Are there different types of love? If so, what are they? Do they invalidate each other? Does it matter?

I know that I have never loved a partner like I love my kids and the love I have for my friends is different to the love I feel for my fellow man.

Of course all of these loves are eclipsed by the love I have for the one thing that causes me the most joy while inflicting me with the worst pain imaginable. I am of course referring to my Swear boots. (Oh yes, mummy loves you.)

I, though some will find this hard to believe, am a very loving person with a huge capacity for love. And once I love you, I will always love you. Of course, if you betray me I will cut you off like you were never born, but that won't stop me loving you.

Maybe it's because I'm a witch and to the Goddess 'all acts of love are worship in my sight'. I don't know. I only know that I love.

This doesn't mean I'm *in love* with you in the traditional, get married, have babies, let's grow old together kind of way, but that I have feelings for you that go beyond 'like'.

But it's all good. And it's all love.

If you bring me joy in any way, shape or form, even if it is just to make me smile after a shitty day, I am going to love you.

So, who do I love?

I don't usually name names, so here are a selection of my loves and how many different ways I find it possible to feel that.

Let's get the kids out of the way first.

I have 3 children who I love in a very motherly way even as I am in awe of the people they are becoming. They are all individuals and again I would do absolutely anything for them. Though that love generally means letting them make mistakes and being there to catch them when they fall.

I have two wives who are amazing to me. I love them in a protective but not motherly way. Mad as whole crates of frogs, I love their fire, their individuality and would do anything for them. Woe betide anyone who hurts them for my wrath will be slow and painful.

There is one I love because they are cuddly. And they are proper intelligent and committed to their cause even to the exclusion of themselves sometimes. Intense and brilliant. Who wouldn't love that?

There is one I love because they're not as cuddly, but this doesn't mean they don't let me know that I am important to them. Magnificent of intellect, I am lucky to be allowed into their circle.

One agrees with me on pretty much everything. But will tell me when they think I'm wrong. And worry about me. I love their nurturing warmth and their warm laugh in equal measure.

One challenges me and excites me with their mind. I get breathless trying to keep up with their thought process.

One is really needy and I need that.

One is there when I am feeling needy. And believe me, I often need that!

And I love my fellow man generally even the ones I call cunts as I have hope that with enough love that one day they will not be so cunty. (Which is probably why I am a Socialist and a Trade Union rep).

So. What is love? To me it is accepting someone for exactly who they are, foibles and all and still wanting to spend time with them. It is feeling joy when they do and feeling down when they do and knowing that you would walk to the end of the earth for them if that was what was needed. It makes you put them before yourself and not even mind.

That feeling that you wouldn't be able to breathe without someone. That is love.

That feeling of pride, that swelling of the emotions, that joy. That is love.

Even just pure physical attraction is a type of love.

And when you love someone, I mean *really* love someone, you will make the ultimate sacrifice for them.

You will lend them your Swear boots.

The Strange Case Of The Baking Tray

It has been a very strange day today.

Being as it is friday and a bit of schadenfreude always makes people smile, I thought I'd give your weekends a boost by telling you about it.

As those of you who follow me on Twitter and those of you who are my friends on Facebook will know I was without mobile internet yesterday. It was horrible. Because of my Twitter addiction there was someone who actually emailed to see if I was alright because it was unlike me to be so quiet!

See, what happened was that Virgin hadn't put my Virgin Mobile minutes or data allowance on when they did my monthly refresh.

So I rang them. The lady was very nice and took the one package off and put the new one on manually. Which was lovely. But my internet stopped working. And yes I am enough of an asshole to be distraught at the loss of mobile web.

I admit it. Freely. Move on.

So I rang back and spoke to nice lady number two. And they are all lovely. She told me that she had activated the web but it might take 24 hours to come back. What I should do is a hard reboot now and then... Her: 'do you know what a hard reboot is?' Me: 'I'm a Blackberry owner. Of course I know.' This should reactivate the web.

So I did exactly that. Over and over again. And still nothing. And still I was without internet on my phone. Distraught. Bereft. Well not quite. I was fully expecting it to come back this morning. It didn't.

So, I'm on the 7.37 from Redcar East to Newcastle and I keep trying. I try and try until 8.50 when the 24 hours was up. Then I rang back. I went through to technical this time where the man tells me that the nice lady didn't do the right bit and he will have my internet up and running in a jiffy. Which bless him he did. I was very happy.

Then it all went a bit wrong.

I found the Metro bought my ticket and got on the train, feeling pretty chuffed with myself. I was tweeting and facebooking and blog reading and all was right with the world. Till it occurred to me that while I was talking to the lovely Steve from Virgin that I'd got off the train without my suitcase.

Bugger! At least I had Google back so I could get the number for Newcastle station right? Wrong. Could I find it? Could I fuck.

So I asked the biggest train geek I know and will always be grateful to the lovely Sam Harrison for using his wily ways to procure the number for me.

So. I rang Newcastle Station who said they didn't have it but did give me the number for Northern Rail. (By the way Ruth from Northern Rail, whatever they are paying you isn't nearly enough)

My case had not been cleared off by the naughty conductor. And it had gone to Carlisle. That train was then going back to Newcastle. Might I prevail upon the lovely conductor (who was wearing a big old RMT badge) to bring it back to Newcastle for me asked me. I can ask him says lovely Ruth but it's against policy. Insurance issues apparently.

I thought I was going to cry. My straighteners were in that case. I have spares at home, but they're shite. This is why they are spares. Lovely Ruth must have heard the catch in my voice as she said she'd see what she could do.

Then I broke my shoe. It was un wearable and un repairable. I had a spare pair. They were in my case. Which was in Carlisle.

So I was walking around barefoot. In Newcastle. In a meeting. Where the reps didn't really know me well. And things got a little heated. Hard to project authority when you are barefoot and the Chair announces to the meeting that you are waiting for a call to retrieve your underwear.

For fuck's sake.

Of course that call came right when the Chair said 'Dee, would you like to update us on the pilot scheme please?'

St Ruth of Northern Rail then told me that lovely conductor was bringing my case back to Newcastle. Yay!!!

Meeting continued and it was as meetings can be. Long. Contentious. Frustrating in parts but worth attending and ultimately very productive.

And as the Chair said 'Dee, would you like to give us the Group position on this policy please?'. My phone went again. St Ruth. Again. And she told me that they now had my case. And that it had been opened and checked at Carlisle and everyone, both at the Northern Rail offices at Newcastle and Carlisle wanted to know why there was a baking tray in it.

I hope the sainted Northern Rail staff are still laughing at the fact that I carry it because I am worried about my straighteners scorching surfaces. They were certainly laughing as lovely Ruth relayed this to them.

They laughed even harder when I turned up barefoot. And when I opened my case to get my spare shoes out and they actually saw the baking tray. Well, I get to use the word apoplectic here I think. Yep, that about describes it.

But you know, the way I was handled and the fact that St Ruth went above and beyond the call of duty meant that I didn't mind them laughing at the absurdity of it all and I laughed along with them.

I hope my day has amused you too.

I have my case and internet back thanks to people on the telephone. The meeting today was about Contact Centres.

I hope as you laugh that you think about how much crap these good people have to take and take some time to remember this next time you have reason to need them.

Dear Ed Milliband

Dear Ed,

I thought I would tell you a little about myself and why you drove me to chocolate today.

I come from a Labour family. My dad, an immigrant, came to this country and slept on Clapham Common because of the signs saying 'No blacks, no Irish, no dogs' for two weeks. He then worked on London Underground doing hard manual graft at night while studying to be a barrister during the day.

His values were labour values.
My mother brought up 3 kids on her own and taught us to always question, always seek knowledge. She took me to CND marches and we sat and collected groceries during the miner's strike.

Her values were Labour values.

I have children of my own. They believe in personal autonomy and responsibility. They are proud of our NHS, our schools, our emergency services, hells, they even understand the link between paying taxes and the affordability of pensions. They understand that the Welfare State was created as a safety net and they have seen first hand those who abuse the system get the most. But they do not get the concept of an 'undeserving poor'. And neither do I.

Our values are Labour values.
Shame then that yours aren't.

I missed your speech today. I was working at PCS trying hard to defend public sector terms and conditions. I got sent a link to it and settled down to read.

It made me physically ill. The rhetoric Ed, the rhetoric! Who wrote it? A Daily Mail staffer?

Bad enough that you refused to stand up for workers at the fucking TUC, you then made it worse by saying that those who opposed the changes to trade union laws were wrong.

The fucking *ARROGANCE* of you!!!

I really hope that you didn't mean that those who are working should take priority over those who aren't when it comes to social housing. For if you did, you are a cunt and God is ashamed of you.

You said 'when I am Prime Minister' today and talked about your rough school while pricing normal and poor families out of higher education. Here's a hint you fuckwit: six grand is no more affordable than nine grand.

You sold me out today Ed. When you refused to even acknowledge our battles over our (affordable) pensions.

You sold my dad out when you essentially cut off all hope of higher education for his grandchildren.

You sold my mum out when you refused to make provision for those who actually need the safety net.

And you sold my children and yours out when you delivered a speech today that was so grovelling, so obsequious, so toadying to business, so fucking right wing that it actually made me cry for the death of the party I once loved and always voted for.

What do I do now Ed? Who do I vote for now you have betrayed the working class?

No, don't answer, I'll ask Cameron or Clegg. It'll save you the trouble.

#TUC11 - Why I Shouted At Ed Milliband

I'm back from the TUC now, and what a fantastic time I had. Yes, it was much smaller. Yes, there were few amenities and some of the debate felt rushed. Yes, there were lots of stairs and I had a poorly ankle, but I still had a fantastic time.

For a start I got to make a seconding speech on supporting Trade Unions in Egypt that had been moved by the Fire Brigade's Union. It would be undiverse of me to make any comment that would objectify our big, burly, yummy comrades in the FBU so I won't.

I also got to watch union after union declare their intent where it comes to a Public Sector General Strike. One after another, some expected and some a surprise, (really, welcome to the Trade Union movement FDA and Prospect, see y'all on the picket line!) it was still a good feeling to be able to tweet them as they all stated that enough was enough and that they would be balloting their members  for strike action over pensions. Dave Prentis (Unison) actually got a standing ovation, and it would be uncharitable of me to make any comment that would equate to 'about bloody time, but better late than never I suppose' so I won't.

And of course I got my mug on the telly. A lot. Even in France and Spain so I am told!

See, what obstensibly happened was that Labour leader Ed Milliband came to the TUC on tuesday morning to speak to delegates. What actually happened was that he came to the TUC to wind the fuck out of us while showing everyone else, the press, the Labour MPs, his bestest chums Cameron, Clegg and Osborne that he wasn't in the pocket of the pesky unions who fund him and had got him his position in the first place.

To be fair, I hadn't expected and inspiring speech from him and on that point I wasn't disappointed. There was a lot of 'you guys are really great, please keep giving us money' type stuff, blah, blah, blah... So far so dull. Then he moved onto our strike action on June 30th this year.

(as an aside, I'm glad somebody fucking mentioned it, Brendan Barber certainly didn't in his speech to Congress)

Ed. You might want to sit down for this as I am sure it won't be what you're expecting.

You might think that I shouted at you because you said that while negotiations are ongoing that we shouldn't take strike action. It wasn't that at all. Actually, I agree with you on that and I expect that every trade unionist in history would agree too.

While negotiations are ongoing, we shouldn't take strike action. Strike action is, and always should be the action of last resort. And that, Ed, is the whole fucking point. I know this, you know this, my kids, their Nan and her fucking dog knows this. What the fuck makes you think that a hall filled with trade union Presidents, General Secretaries and Senior Lay Activists wouldn't have a clue?

I can only think that either:-

You think we are all stupid... in which case I was right to shout at you.

You don't actually support the right to strike... in which case you have no business being in the Labour Party and I was right to shout at you.

You actually do believe that negotiations, proper inclusive negotiations, with the government are ongoing... in which case you are an idiot, an ill informed, pointless idiot who has no business being in the Labour Party and I was right to shout at you.

The only thing I regret is that I had my foot strapped up so I couldn't get to the stage to call you out on your bullshit.

I hope it was worth it Ed. I hope you went back to your hole in the ground under your rock and bragged about how they can't call you 'Red Ed' anymore. I hope that you feel good about letting yourself, your members and your party down.

I had a tweet from one of my followers saying that they objected to leaders of non affiliated unions bullying you. How sweet. But it missed the fucking point!

I may not be in a union that is affiliated to the Labour Party. I may not be a member of the Labour Party. But I am a voter Ed. As are millions of us wonderful public sector workers who you refused to support on tuesday morning.

And we object to a leader of the Labour party who refuses to support the right to withdraw our labour while bigging up academy schools.

So there you go. That's why I shouted. Because I was angry at being treated like an idiot. I suppose it would be churlish of me to point out that Ed Milliband is a scab and a disgrace and should go now and let a proper leader win Labour the next election... so I won't.

Cut Union Facilities Time Will You?

Today I am fucking steaming!!!

Francis Maude and the Telegraph have set out their stalls where the time that Trade Union reps spend working for their members is concerned.

In a blatant attack on members now that other unions (YAY NASUWT, welcome to the party!!!) Are to ballot their members over strike action to protect their pensions, they will be cracking down on the time we spend on looking after members' interests.

Scarily there are some, who I thought would know better, who are nodding sagely saying 'oh yes, that sounds right...'

Well sage nodders, I have a question for you. Just one. Are you off this weekend?? Yes? Oh well then you can thank the unions. In your own time. No fucking rush!

The maths is totally wrong, the 'costings' way off. And I am sick to the back teeth of the whole 'paid for by the tax payer' thing. I AM the fucking taxpayer, so are my members as we have no fucking choice, unlike the bastards to evade/avoid it.

And I seriously object to the idea that union reps are doing nothing just because they spend less time doing core work. We half kill ourselves working on behalf of our members and we do so generally with scant regard for our own health, safety or welfare. The amount of reps I see burnt out is unreal. I'm in bed with my foot elevated because I'm off to the TUC tomorrow. In my own time. With no cost to the taxpayer. If I was just going to the office, I wouldn't go. And then I would be under threat of losing my job. Who would I turn to in my hour of need?

That's right sage nodders, the union!

And that is why Maude and the Torygraph need to check their facts and fuck off.

It's on now... Oh it's on!!!

If Not Now Then When?

I finished work early today with the intention of coming home and working on my speech for the TUC on monday, but found myself uninspired.

So I farted about on You Tube for a bit. I listened to a bit of Tevin Campbell and some vintage Al B Sure. It made me nostalgic for the 80's and 90's.

I thought back to what I was doing then. I was living under a Conservative government. I was a single mother on benefits. I lived in a council flat with my rent paid and looked after my baby. I wanted to work, but seriously couldn't afford it. I lived on bugger all money. I walked every where, I went without a social life. I never went on holiday. You know, the things that we are supposed to take for granted as everyday.

But you know what? With all of that I felt richer then than I do now 24 years on.

My baby is all grown up and planning a family of his own. I am again living under a Conservative government. Now I work. Full time. I pay my own rent. I live on bugger all money. I walk everywhere. I go without a social life. I can't remember the last time I went on holiday.

So nothing has changed it would seem. The poor are still scum. Immigration is still the cause of all ills. I am still  disgusted by what I see and I still feel the need to fight injustices.

I would say that some things are worse. I am a trade unionist and proud to be so. On monday starts the TUC Conference and I will be there and will be proud to be there. The first motion up is on Trade Union rights and how they don't actually conform to the Human Rights Act.

We have had our power and strength eroded by successive governments for years. Now is the time to take the power back. Who could have seen the communal stroll last saturday and not have felt that this was the time? Who could have seen the March For The Alternative and not have felt that this was the time? Who could have witnessed the mass strike action on June 30th and not felt that this was the time?

This is why I am proud to be part of the trade union movement and why I will be proud to be representing PCS next week at Congress.

But I'm even more proud of what I will be doing on sunday. There is a lobby of the TUC https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=222515987782045 . Now I know that there are those who think it a pointless exercise, there are those that see it as a waste of time and campaigning resources. But if we get a good turnout it will show that there is a will for further action, for the General Strike that was alluded to at Congress last year. And maybe it will change nothing. But maybe it will.

I don't want to read my grandchildren's blogs in 25 years time and wonder why we didn't do enough.

If now is not the time to really fight for change then when?

On Life After Death And Trade Union Weekends

I am Goddessdeeva and it has been a month since I last blogged.

I've been meaning to blog more, but I haven't had the heart. I'll explain.

Husband has moved all of his stuff out now. It is all official. It has been strange, weird, horrible. The time leading up to that was not pleasant and I have been quite ill through the stress of it all. Daily phone calls. Rowing all the time. Awkwardness with the kids. Horrible.

And yet there is a part of me that still loves him. Part of me wants to work it all out with him. Part of me just wants to wrap myself around him and never let him go. Part of me.

Big part of me wonders if I could have had the weekend I just had if I was still with him. Short answer is no.

Oh, here's a thing people. If you have a partner who wants to do stuff that doesn't interest you at weekends, saying 'I never stopped them from going' is disengenous. You are a passive aggressive asshole and I see through you. And you get on my last nerve.

But I digress.

I have just had the best weekend ever. I went to Tower Hamlets on saturday to help stop the scummy English Defence League from getting into the borough.

I was never sure how I felt about people from outside an area turning up on behalf of a community, but I am proud to have stood shoulder to shoulder with comrades and communities. Even though the Home Secretary had banned all marches. Actually marching would have contravened section 38 of the Public Order Act according to the lovely policeman who took me aside to talk to me after I had drunk a very nice cup of tea at the East London Mosque.

I wouldn't want to break the law. Nor would any of the comrades I was with. So we didn't march. Coz that would have been illegal.

We did take a communal stroll down Whitechapel Road though. Lots of us. Strolling communally. Like you do. On our way, we just happened to see a load of placards lying about. Tutting, we picked them up to make the place look tidier. Amazing as well how all us communal strollers had lots to say, mainly the same thing, all at the same time! To the untrained ear, it might have sounded like chanting! Especially when we all said 'are you watching Theresa May?'

But it wasn't a march... honest...

And best of all, they did not pass.

On sunday it was a completely different beast. I went to the Burston Strike School Rally (Google it lazy!) and had a great time. There were stalls, freebies (oh I love a good freebie) music (not keen, but there you go and John Hegley, no love... just no... you looked bored shitless) food, speeches, lying on the grass and a march round the same route the kids took (they walked bloody MILES!) with not one, but two marching bands courtesy of RMT and NASUWT.

It was fab.

I got to meet new comrades, see ones I hadn't seen in an age, lie on the grass eating vegetable jalfrezi and I even had a chat with Bob Crow. A real chat. About how happy I was that his members had scuppered EDL plans. If you ever happen to read this Bob, I'm sorry for delaying you on what was obviously a journey to the loos.

I am shattered. It is hard work doing what equates to a lot of standing around in intense heat listening to speeches you have heard before from people you don't know.

Would I have missed it for the world? Not on your nelly!

So it would seem that I have some serious thinking to do about what part of me I listen to. I'll let you know when I work it out.

But after TUC Congress eh? And Tolpuddle...

On Death And Resurgence

Well, it's official, I'm single again. Guttingly, scarily, exhilaratingly single.

I didn't want to be single. I wanted to stay married and work things out with him indoors, but it wasn't going to happen. There was love but no trust on either side. Nothing but blame, nothing but recrimination. Nothing but two people who really do still have love for each other not being able to live together.

Cliches abound. For the best. Bound to happen eventually. Grown apart. Left behind. Stuck in a rut.

Accusations abound. Bags get searched, 'evidence' found. More rows, less trust, screaming.

Tempers flared. It got nasty. Things were said, and slowly, painfully, the marriage died.

For the record, he was my whole life. There was no one else, regardless of what he thinks. I will always have love for him and I will always miss him.

FUCK ME THAT'S MAUDLIN!!!!!

I'm gonna be fine you know. I'm gonna take some time to be nice to me and I will be fine. Better than fine. Reborn, renewed.

And most of all, gloriously, wonderfully single.

I shall do all of the things that I wanted to do before but couldn't.

I will have weekends away with my friends.

I will flirt outrageously with both sexes and enjoy that frisson you get from being openly admired.

I will make mistakes and laugh and cringe in equal measure.

I will buy new underwear knowing it is only going to be me who sees it.

I will spend saturdays singing and dancing in my underwear whilst I do the cleaning.

I will eat Shreddies for dinner if I feel like it.

I will drink gin with sailors and Sailor Jerrys with gin hags.

Because I am loved by my children, by my friends, by my twitter followers even, and most importantly, by me...

I will go on, and I will live.

A Scab By Any Other Name Still Stinks

So where do you stand on union members crossing picket lines?

Is it harmless? Are there justifiable reasons for it? Does it matter? Should we on the picket lines take it personally?

No, no, yes and probably not but we do wouldn't make for much of a blog so I shall attempt to explain my reasoning.

Firstly, I have to just get this out there. There are some people who do not like me using the term scab for those who cross an official picket line. These people fall into two groups. The kind of bleeding heart who thinks that all the kids are winners at sports day... And scabs.

So, to the questions.

Is it harmless? No it bloody isn't. There are various reasons that a union will ask its members to take strike action. One of those is to show the employer the strength of feeling of the membership. This is totally undermined if members are crossing picket lines. These scabs have no idea what Union actually means. One member said to me 'I do support you but that doesn't mean I have to strike.' Well actually love, that's exactly what it means.

Are there justifiable reasons for it? Not as far as I'm concerned. I don't care how skint you are. I'm skint. We are all bloody skint, but especially where it comes to public sector pensions, it is a choice between a days pay this month or a days pay every month for the rest of my career, such as it is. It is a false economy to think that you can't afford to strike. You can't afford not to!

Does it matter? Yes it does. Every scab is a victory for the employer and weakens the negotiating position of the union. Every scab is a stab in the heart of every member who has given up a days pay for the good of solidarity and unity. Every scab who manages to look themselves in the mirror while reaping the benefits of union membership while contributing nothing makes me sick to the pit of my stomach. Every scab that won't look me in my face as they cross a picket line I have been manning since six am is a punch in the guts. Every time a scab drives at me, ignores me, spits at me, complains about me, shouts at me or worse, smiles at me as they cross a picket line, then regardless of how successful the strike was, a little bit inside me dies.

I think that covers the taking it personally bit.

So if you don't like me using the word scab, fuck you. Fuck you very much.

May I respectfully suggest that if you don't want to be called a scab that you DON'T FUCKING SCAB!!!

On Self Discovery and Friendship

Everyone who knows me well and those proficient at reading between the lines may have noticed that I have been a tad confused and upset lately. Things at home had not been going well. Him indoors would rather I didn't blog about our marriage and I have to respect that, so instead I will be saying thank you to the long suffering members of the 24 Committee.

What is the 24 Committee you may ask...

The 24 Committee is a collective of female trade unionists who are so named because they are there for each other 24 hours a day. (Apparently, most women have this and just call them 'friends' or 'support network' but I was always a tomboy with intimacy issues so this is a new thing to me.)

They were convened at conference this year when I was in the middle of a hard time and have been there for the past 4 weeks while I sorted things out.

There are a couple of men too, they are like an advisory committee to the 24 Committee and are brought in to offer specialist advice, i.e., the Male Perspective... Sometimes you need a bit of perspective. I know I did!

Though it's not exactly a secret society, I will be keeping the identities of the 24 Committee to myself. You know who you are, that is all that matters.

So for the thank yous.

Thank you lovely, lovely committee member who first convened the committee in the first place. Thank you for looking relieved that I had finally asked for some advice and for not being phased by any of it. Thank you for your dirty laugh and for being at the end of the phone day or night.

Thank you lovely, lovely committee member who didn't really say very much but has a great line in concerned looks and an even better one in cuddles and wind ups. Oh it was fun wasn't it? There are some I don't think will ever recover!

Thank you lovely, lovely member who told me to hang on in there and not make any hasty decisions. Thank you for bearing with me while I was worse than useless for a month and for keeping me going and for giving me the benefit of your hindsight.

Thank you lovely, lovely committee member who knew I was going through hell and gave me her time unstintingly and unsolicited without pressure or demand. You were very perceptive. I really appreciate it.

And thank you lovely, lovely committee member who still listened to my confused laments even though she was experiencing the opposite. Glad you're happy honey, sorry if I killed your love buzz for even a millisecond.

Thank you committee member who made me see that it isn't disloyal to talk to people about how I feel. I hadn't realised that it was not only ok, but essential to be able to do so. You were patient and loving and got me very, very drunk in a safe place. And you let me slide down your stairs on my bottom.

Thank you lovely committee member who helped me separate head from heart and helped me realise they were going in the same direction.

The one who gave me gin. Thank you. The one who cackled with me when I really needed to laugh. Thank you.

Don't think I left anyone out... Now onto the Advisory Committee!

One of you has been where I am and was very honest.

One of you had your own gin story (don't ask... never again...) which cheered me up.

One of you discussed options with me and I appreciate both your candour and your generosity.

One of you has been the one person I could discuss every detail with and who has kept me strong and made me believe that I could strive for better in every aspect of my life. All night sometimes. Thank you probably the most.

And that is the whole point. I have discovered that I am blessed in my life because I have people who love me, who believe in me and will be there for me 24 hours a day, no matter what else is going on.

Right back at ya! I love you all and thank you xxxxxxx

Feelin' Sassy For The Alternative

Help. I think I may be shallow!

I am happy to admit that I am a woman of a certain age now. A socialist, trade unionist, feminist woman of a certain age.

Be honest, what image does that conjure up for you? Honestly. Go on, I won't be offended if you are thinking, grey hair, shapeless jumper (maybe even rainbow coloured) should have gone to Specsavers type glasses. Oh, and hairy. Feminists are always hairy right? We don't shave our legs or armpits for men, or wimmin, and we have eyebrows like Dennis Healey. Billy D Williams looks at our moustaches and says 'damn woman, that is some moustache!'

Well actually, there is more to being a feminist than how we look. You might be sitting next to one right now and never know it to look at her...

I try to make the most of myself. I don't plaster myself in make up. Seriously, who has time at 6am? (Women who have been sucked in by advertising, that's who!) I've never considered myself a great beauty but I got by.

It was my mind and my abilities that mattered not what I looked like anyway right? Right??

Ok, I admit it. I am 40  and I was feeling old and frumpy.

Not that I was bothered about it, it was just the way it was. I was actually enjoying being insufferably noble  about the whole thing. Like a Dowager Duchess I smiled at the young and beautiful,  wishing them on their way with a wave and a wistful look.

Not now though! I have found my inner sass! I got my hair cut, lost a stone in weight and started to wear a bit of lip gloss. The difference it has made!

Now I am wondering if my hairdresser has put a spell on my hair. I don't look like Charlize Theron, but I do have the Aeon Flux haircut. It is a great haircut. It is edgy and choppy and really easy to maintain. Takes me minutes in the morning and I leave the house with my head up and a sway to my walk.

I feel more confident, and that confidence works! I had a guy chase me up the platform at Clapham Junction station trying to give me his phone number. I have had much attention from both men and women, and whereas it may well be my Marxist feminist dialectic that brings all the boys to the yard,* sometimes a woman wants to be objectified dammit!

I may be an old married woman, but I am one who is going to admit to enjoying that frisson you get when being openly admired.

Shallow I may be, a certain age I may be, but I ain't dead yet!

Now, where is that eyeliner for the alternative?

*I would like to thank and credit @poppyh for alerting me to this. Follow her on Twitter, she's fab!

That's What My Heart Yearns For Now

Since I managed to claw my way kicking and screaming out of the conference bubble I have been musing on the meaning of love.

And of pride. Are the two the same thing? Are they interchangeable? What do they mean?

Anyone who knows me is well aware that I have a huge capacity for love. They also know that it is not easily that I trust and make good friends. Once you are under my skin I have no problem with saying 'I love you' in fact, terrified that those I love don't know it, I say it all the time.

And I'm proud of people. For example, I'm proud of every single member who took industrial action yesterday and immensely proud of every rep who made it happen. My chest swelled, my heart felt full to bursting and there were tears in my eyes.

Now, to me, that is near enough the same as the feeling of love I get for people whether family or friends. So you see where I'm coming from. Could I possibly love every member who walked out of work yesterday? You know, depending on how you define love, maybe I can.

It's not going to be like, or as intense as the love I have for my family and friends, but if you define love as wanting the best for people and doing anything in your power to help them achieve it, then maybe I do at that!

Either that or I need more sleep. Those picket lines start early!

Climbing Out of the Conference Bubble For The Alternative

Well, I've been back from PCS Conference for a week now and have left it till now to blog. There is a very good reason for that, if I had written any earlier it would have been disjointed gibberish as I struggled to be coherent whilst suffering from what is known as Conference Comedown.

I'm just starting to come out the other side of it, but I thought I would try to describe that specific type of melancholy that you get on your return home after you decide to not only march for the Alternative, but to take co ordinated strike action for it! (And to slaughter A131. Thank you everyone who helped with that)

For those of us who like our democracy fair and open, conference is the highlight of our year, and not just because of the debates.

You can discuss politics at breakfast. For those of us married to non unionised people this is truly heady stuff. I'm still feeling weak at the knees thinking about a conversation I had about public ownership over the porridge.

You can let your hair down with like minded people who actually understand the work you do and the pressures you are under because they are in exactly the same boat. That not having to explain, that just being able to say 'been negotiating with *insert name of latest capitalist hateful bastard manager here*' and be greeted with a truly understanding nod is not only refreshing, it is essential to all reps so that we don't explode. That sense of unity is euphoric.

And it might explain why some delegates wake up in rooms they weren't booked into, but believe it or not, that happens less than you think. If you are a spouse waiting at home for a phone call that doesn't come, it is not because your other half doesn't care or because they are misbehaving with one or more of the delegates, but likely because they are mid table thumping as they argue a tiny but absolutely crucial point in the argument against political affiliation.

Friendships are forged, some of them really intense. Some of them will even live on after conference. Facebook and Twitter numbers swell.

So after a week long diet of politics for breakfast, heady debate for lunch and impassioned argument for dinner and absolute understanding for a night cap we climb out of the bubble that is conference and trudge with heavy heart up the hill to the station. The fact that we love our families doesn't detract from the fact that we hang around at the station longer than we need to, saying long goodbyes to comrades and wishing that we could start the week over again.

And when we get home, and put the washing on/make a sandwich/run the hoover round when all we want to do is climb into bed and go to sleep we seem distant and distracted to our nearest and dearest. We mope about trying not to go on Facebook and see if any of the photos are up yet or worse, we try to tell the nearest and dearest all about it.

That they don't care that it was the carefully nuanced points in your beautifully crafted speech that swung the debate is not their fault.

They weren't there man, they weren't there...

A131 - Why Neutrality On The Issue Of Choice Is Not Good Enough

Those on my Twitter timeline and my Facebook friends list who don't just scroll past me wondering what the hell I am banging on about now will have seen my many mentions of motion A131 due to be debated at PCS Conference next week.

Some of them, believe it or not, are not conference geeks and will have no idea of what A131 is, or of its importance.

For those who have no idea as to what we do at conference, the short answer is that we debate motions that are to form PCS policy and if they get passed they give the union its position for the next two years.

Which brings me back to A131 which says "This Conference is of the opinion that affiliation to Abortion Rights is divisive and offensive to PCS members who have deeply held beliefs. The PCS prides itself on diversity and respect for all members and an affiliation such as this can only erode this ethos. This issue has no place in any Trade Union and this Conference therefore resolves to disaffiliate from Abortion Rights forthwith and instructs the National Executive Committee to return to a position of neutrality on this subject."

Now, apart from the obvious counter argument that I would find it offensive *not* to be affiliated to Abortion Rights because of my deeply held beliefs,(see previous post on personal autonomy. That this is a personal not religious belief does not negate it) "...return to a position of neutrality on this subject." My arse will I!

Oh, by the gods this makes me so angry on so many levels.

Level one: how bloody patronising can one motion be? It pats me on the head and says 'don't worry dear, we're not going to pressure you to be anti abortion just to have no opinion on it at all' Not this woman buddy, oh no! Don't know if you've noticed, but you don't get to silence us on our issues any more.

Level two: Affiliation to Abortion Rights is about Equality, Choice and supporting those who need help. These are the cornerstones of EVERY Trade Union. Or at least they should be.

Level three: far from being the benign little motion it seems to be, and for such a short motion it sure packs a punch, its call for a return to neutrality is an invidious thing that may well be the thin end of a slippery slope. Want to discuss a domestic abuse policy? Sorry, bit to close to interfering with deeply held beliefs on women being chattel. Want to debate paternity leave for familial adopters? Sorry, would love to but there are a few people who have deeply held beliefs about it. So we can't.

Level four: much as I understand and support the rule that says you can to try to overturn conference policy after 2 years and much as I applaud the Standing Orders Committee (them lovely people what determine what will and won't be debated for non conference geeks) for putting this near the top of the section so it is likely it won't be out of time, when I look around the conference hall, will I, in spite of all the hard work being done by PCS, see a delegation that is representative of the number of women in PCS?

Will I shite.

I WILL not let a group of men decide for me whether or not my Trade Union will have a neutral stance on what is essentially a women's issue.

I WILL not stand by quietly while there is a chance I will have any influence on a single vote on this issue. I owe it to myself, my daughter, my nieces, my female cousins, my future grand daughters and to every woman who has ever been faced with the most terrible choice a woman has to make to speak out.

Affiliation to Abortion Rights is not a pro abortion stance, it is a pro choice stance and if we don't stand up for choice we should be ashamed to call ourselves Trade Unionists.

Personal Autonomy (or to put it another way, who owns me?)

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother 'what will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?' Here's what she said to me...

'Depends who you marry I suppose.'

Not quite the answer I was looking for as it pre supposed that I had no value other than what was placed upon me by a man. Assuming I was lucky enough to catch one.

Even when I told my (female) teacher when I was five back in nineteen *cough* *ahem* that I intended on being a lawyer, she said that I should be a nurse instead. Assuming my husband would let me work at all!

As a spotty (and really horrible) teenager I discovered (partly via the still dreamy Paul Weller) a penchant for left wing politics and feminism. Let me state for the record that I am aware I was a royal pain in the arse and I unreservedly apologise to any male I snapped at for holding a door open for me. I was young, I was stupid, I had spots and I was angry!

And confused. Which only made me more angry. I knew that I was a feminist right!?! But I had no real concept of what that actually meant beyond the fact that there was nothing a boy (spit) could do that I couldn't. Apart from peeing standing up. And I tried. And failed. And in an event known to me at least as 'the greatest ever embarrassment at Robertsbridge youth club ever' I weed on my leggings. They were white.

But I digress.

As an adult, but not a grown up, I am still angry. I am angry at so many things; unequal pay, maternity leave rules, the glass ceiling, the fashionistas who make young women ill by making them believe (much like my mum and primary school teacher) that they will be NOTHING unless they are skinny, beautiful and able to catch a man; the list goes on and on.

The difference is that I now have a base, an internal credo if you will, to start from and that is personal autonomy. I own myself body and mind and I make the rules for it.

Sounds simple doesn't it? To tell you the truth it is, and it covers everything from sex, to abortion to the right to withdraw my labour from my employer.

I do not have to do a damned thing I don't want to with my body or my mind. I have the last word and where it comes to me that word is law.

If I decide that I cannot carry a pregnancy to term, that is my choice. If I decide to go on strike for equal pay, that is my choice. If I decide I want to paint my nails, wear make up, have nice hair and try and be the next Imelda Marcos where it comes to shoes that is my choice. If I decide I want to slob round in my trackky bottoms with my hair a mess, whilst eating a whole pot of Ben and Jerry's that is also my choice.

It's all about choice. All about personal autonomy. It's the beginning and end of everything that makes me the human being I am. The flip side of course is responsibility and if you want to taste the freedom of personal autonomy that is the price that you have to pay. I still consider it a bargain.

I had a daughter of my own. She asked me what should she be.

My answer was 'Whatever you want. You can be anything you desire as long as you remember... Your body, your rules.'

Now, where is that ice cream?

My Love Affair With The North

Firstly, let me say this. I am a soft southern bastard. Obviously, as this is a love letter to the north, this is to be pronounced bassstad with all the vitriol you can muster.

I was born in the south, spent my formative years in the south and after a sixteen year exile in the Midlands I returned to my homeland. The South.

I love where I live. I love the laid back nature. I love the air, the warmth, the cosmopolitan attitude! I even love the smug superiority of the southerners. We feel we are above northerners for the very fact that we are not quaint, old fashioned and, let us not shy away from it, a wee bit backwards.

I'm not saying that I am proud of this, far from it, but more that I recognise it in my southern brethren and do not shy away from its existence.

And yet...

When my best friend moved to North Yorkshire it was all hats and scarves as leaving presents and jokes about taking the huskies to work. Did she want us to post her the Guardian? Was she sure she wanted to live among savages? Maybe she could treat it like missionary work!

And yet...

The first time I went to visit I was overwhelmed by the friendliness of the people. The warmth was amazing. (The people still, not the weather it's bloody freezing).

Yes there is a language barrier, it really shouldn't take ten minutes and a resorting to sign language to order hotpot, but people smile, smile I say, at you and they pass the time of day with you at the (admittedly freezing) train station.

I have been back many times. I am on my way there now as it happens and rather than see the fondness for vertical blinds (there must have been a european vertical blind mountain which ended up in Redcar) as something to mock, I now see it as endearing.
The industrial structures are beautiful to me now. Majestic.

As for the food. Pie and peas has to be tried before you die. And if you don't have mint sauce on it you are a fool.

Far from it being 'grim oop north' I have to say North Yorkshire I love you and I salute your brand of open friendliness and guile less honesty. I salute your architecture and your vertical blinds. I even salute your chimneys.

Still reserving judgement on the Chicken Parmo though...
Sent from my BlackBerry smartphone from Virgin Media

I've Got A New Book!!!!

Before you think that I am being published, no, that is not what I mean. I mean that I have dragged my ass down to the local library and picked up the book that I had on order.

The staff must dread me going to the library. I turn up, that and a bit *ahem* years old, like a small child at a birthday party and literally bounce up and down on the spot while they look for what I have invariably ordered online. I engage them in conversations they don't want about how excited I am as I have either been waiting for ages/this is the last book in the series/I am reading this author on a recommendation. I bounce, they smile politely and hubbie looks embarrassed. And I don't care.

I love online ordering of books from the library. It is like an even cheaper Amazon. I pay about 50p per book and I have to wait for an email to tell me it's in. That delicious anticipation in a world of instant gratification is part of the joy for me.

Yes, I know that I don't get to keep said books, but that is kind of the point. It opens up a whole new world of literary possibilities as I don't have to play it safe with authors or titles that I know I am likely to love.

I have discovered quite a few new favourites that way. Peter Brett, Amanda Downing, KJ Parker, Naomi Novik but to name a few recent ones.

Without my local library, I would never have read the brilliant Game of Thrones series. (See previous post as to why I am Team Lannister)

But I digress. I went to the library to pick up my latest acquisition, Winterbirth by Brian Ruckley. I have never heard of him before, but it doesn't stop me being really excited all the way home. It doesn't stop me from very slowly setting up my sun lounger, gathering hat, sunglasses, drink and suncream. I settle down slowly and make myself comfortable.

Then comes the best bit. Deep inhalation of breath then I get to sit and hold the book before I open it. Feel its weight in my hands. I smell it, then exhaling slowly, read the first page.

Is it just me who loves the whole process of getting a book home to read? Maybe it is. But in this digital age of ibooks and Kindles, I think we are in danger of losing something very precious, so I hope not.

Why I am team Lannister all the way!

Anyone else been looking forward to Game of Thrones like I have? How many of you read the books? Now, and here is the important question, how many of you were secretly rooting for the Lannisters?  I know I was. So I have decided to go public with my affection for Cercei, Jaime, Tyrion et al.

Oh I know I shouldn't love them. I know, without giving away any spoilers, that there is nary a redeeming feature between them, but that is the whole point.

I like the fact that they are evil. I laugh at my friends who are horrified at my allegiance and look upon those who share it with a new respect.

I haven't always been like this. I cheered when Garion defeated Torak. I wept for Ryan Veitch as he descended into the pit of despair and vengeance  that was Ruth's rejection. I even wanted Thomas Covenant to be redeemed. And the gods alone know how hard it is to care a jot about him!

When Fitz ran away from Buckeep I screamed at him to come back, and when he and Molly finally sorted things out I screamed with joy. I am a good person.

But, but... The Lannisters are so deliciously bad! It isn't even as if they are evil, they define evil!

They are amoral, selfish, totally without conscience or remorse. And why should they feel remorse? They are Lannisters and as such need ask neither permission nor forgiveness from lower mortals or gods.

They don't care that you disapprove of them and they would laugh in the face of detractors if they were not below their notice. I need a bit of that in my life sometimes and I am honest enough to admit it.

And that is why, despite praying fervently that Sparhawk would rescue Elenha and that Poldarn would finally be happy that this geek is Team Lannister and proud.

Now, hear me ROAR!