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...