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.