Normal services will resume soon

I just wanted to put a few words on my neglected blog to say normal services will soon be resumed. I have been without regular internet access and have not been able to either update my blog nor read others recently.

However within the next couple of weeks, this should change and I plan resuming regular blogging.

My lovely sister has also joined the blogging world - check out her blog at www.lucyapple.blogspot.com

The Falmouth Terrorist

Thought has become illegal. We have reached the point where some thoughts are so dangerous we are not allowed to share them.

I no longer know what I'm allowed to say, know what I'm allowed to own. The reality is the colour of my skin allows me certain privileges. I'm white so I'm allowed an extra level of subversion before my door gets kicked in by armed police.

We are living in a time when writing has become subversive. When I started publically writing, I didn't see it as dangerous. In other countries, yes, of course. Writers are ruthlessly persecuted. But here, writing has always felt like the soft option.

I believe in the power of writing. This much is obvious, otherwise I wouldn't write. But this idea of the State turning writing into terrorism is another matter. When a woman is on trial at the Old Bailey partly because she has written under the pen name of the “Lyrical Terrorist”, then writing is subversive. She expressed support for Jihad and radical Islam but she has done no more than read sympathetic websites and written poetry on the subject.

So can I be the Cornwall Terrorist? Or, as an anarchist, do I need a moniker less nationalistic? I could just be the Falmouth Terrorist. After all, I'm in a more literal than lyrical mood.

So what is terrorism? The law defines it as action which is “designed to influence the government or to intimidate the public or a a section of the public for the purpose of advancing a religious or ideological cause.” There are several ways to do this, including firearms, “serious violence against a person”, but also include “serious damage to property.” There are also offences of promoting terrorism, glorifying terrorism and inciting terrorism.

Does this mean my belief that causing severe amounts of economic damage is essential to changing the status quo is terrorism? I believe violence is an unfortunate but inevitable part of agitating for any kind of social change.

I don't really want to get into a protracted debate over the rights and wrongs of violent revolutionary action. I've had the arguments too many times, but moreover, it is irrelevant to the point I am making.

I advocate and participate in illegal actions which have the ultimate aim of agitating social change. I am fully supportive of property damage and fighting back. I believe we have to hit them in the pocket, hit them where it hurts in order to affect anything with the capitalist system.

Again, I could give you a lengthy explanation of why I believe this. I could make you think I'm a nice, if not slightly misguided person, who simply wants a better world for all.

But it's irrelevant. Either I'm legally allowed to say these things or I'm not. It shouldn't matter what the cause is.

Or does it? Are you allowed to put a value judgment on terrorist thought? The legislation does not leave room for such indiscretions, but the reality is different. I'm allowed to say I believe in causing serious damage to property is an essential tactic in fighting the State because I'm white.

Or am I? Where do the lines blur, and when does writing become dangerous, become terrorism? I'm scared by this level of control. I'm scared by what's been going on recently. I'm scared by the increasing levels of violence and repression.

As writers, we have to accept we live in a new political arena. An arena of control. You may not be saying anything subversive at the moment, but at what point do you cross the line? And are you going to wait until you cross that line until you start fighting for the freedom of speech for all?

Who ultimately decides which political ideologies are so dangerous we are not allowed to hear them? At what point did we become so stupid as a population that the State has had to implement laws to stop us accessing information and being able to make reasoned judgments?

You may read what I have to say and decide I'm a delusional fanatic, a loony fringe element. On a good day, I might even be dangerous. But wouldn't you rather read my ideas and make up your own mind? Or would your rather the State proscribed my views as being terrorist and stop me from writing?

An analysis of my current bail conditions

1.To live and sleep each night at an address which doesn't exist. The road is misspelt and a letter has been interchanged for a number on the postcode.

2.“Not to come within enter the M25 motorway except to attend a legitimate court date or meetings with legal representatives and only with written notice.”

Not wishing to pedantic, this bail condition simply means she is not allowed on the M25. This is not problematic. She has no intention of going anywhere near the M25 and doesn't think either her solicitor's offices or courts are on the M25.

3.“Not to interfere with witnesses. When her bag was searched in the custody office a document was found to have photographs of police officers who had been involved with her in the past. It can only be assumed that details are being amassed on targeted officers to limit their ability to be a witness.”

This she finds amusing. She wishes FIT Watch were having this much impact. She thinks it's fantastic to believe our actions are making the cops reluctant to attend court. However she doesn't. She believes this is a petty attempt at intimidation and stopping FIT Watch.

It is also a meaningless condition. She does not know who the witnesses are, having not received any disclosure on the case. She thinks Neal Sinclair filmed her arrest, so he may be a witness. She also remembers HX38 Zaffer Mughal talking to her after she was arrested, but does not know whether this was enough to make him a witness. The cops who nicked her were not FIT, but they were acting upon the orders of FIT. However, at this stage, she does not know who they were.

She also does not understand what interfering means. When she questioned the custody sergeant about this, she was told she might find out their home addresses and go and slash their tyres. However, whilst this image induced some pleasant daydreaming, she also realised that such an action would cause more damage than the £1 she is currently accused of.

FIT Watch are having an effect. Get involved. Send any info you think we might be interested in to defycops@yahoo.co.uk or add to blog – www.fitwatch.blogspot.com

Sock phobia

I have a pair of socks I can no longer wear. Bright stripy ones, in case it matters. Advertised as knee length but they never managed much past mid calf since their first wash.

But I’m scared of these socks. I keep pulling them out of the drawer but have not been able to throw them away. They are worn; holey in places. But this is not why I cannot wear them. Last month I was close to throwing them away, but now I cannot.

These socks are noticeable in the pictures, glaring out incongruously from the rest of my black garb. Vibrant glimpses shining through the uniforms of the cops dragging me to the van.

But I remember the socks most from the police station. The socks I was forcibly strip searched from as I lay restrained on the floor.

And it’s the socks I remember as they forced me through fingerprinting via pain compliance. Bright happy socks in a world of violence. Colourful merriment as my head was held down and my neck pressure pointed. Smirking stripes as my hand was bent in on itself and I cried out in pain.

I remember wishing the socks weren’t so tatty. I wanted better socks. My scruffy socks were the final degradation. I suppose it’s the wearing your best knickers syndrome. Only I don’t remember which knickers I was wearing, so my knickers don’t bother me.

But I can’t bring myself to wear these humiliating socks. Throwing them away seems like defeat. So they remain, taunting me with unresolved dilemmas, every time I open my drawer.

Suppose I might as well start somewhere

Where am I? Trying to get nowhere fast. Drifting and wandering whether drifting's the best thing to do. Or should I flap my arms rapidly and make elongated snow angels? Or would that be too painful?

I just want to chill and relax, to feel at one with myself. But I feel so aggressive, so angry. And I can't settle, can't concentrate. Too edgy. Too upset. Too fucked. Too much. If only. No. If only. I just. I need. I must. I will. Positive assertions, maybe that's what I need.

I need to be doing something. I need to be focused. I need to concentrate back on my writing. Get rid of the concentrate and get the real juices flowing. I can't let this distract me. It's one thing throwing myself back into the front line. I know I can do this. But it's picking up the threads of the rest of my life that's important I've dropped several stiches and haven't taken the time to pick them up, and the small originating hole has unravelled half of the jumper.

Dancing, singing, music, laughing, my beautiful boy. These are all important and must be celebrated. All the things that make my life fucking pleasurable. Friends and family. I musn't lose sight of what is important and immerse myself in an abyss of anger and pain. I musn't feel that isolation.

Except I can't write about what happened. Not yet. There's a lot of work to be done before I can tell the story. Fragmentary pieces are all that stumble onto the page; words which are nothing more than miscellanious jigsaw pieces found under sofa cushoins.

Why does stuff like this always happen?

Okay, so nothing major. This is more of a bored, frustrated blog post than anything remotely resembling something significant.

I'm in the shop. I've finally downloaded the last two episodes of The Sopranos - but every time the tension builds, people come in the shop (now I wouldn't mind this so much if they actually brought anything!). I have the same problem with smoking. No one comes in for hours, but as soon as roll a fag, someone comes in (maybe it's like the waiting for the bus syndrome).

And on smoking, it was inevitable really that I was going to mention the smoking ban. But the thing that really annoys me is I've spend the last few days walking through clouds of smoke outside pubs which I have found worse than ever going into a smokey pub. Not to mention the gangs of people now hanging out in our alleyway from the pub, which must put people off coming down to the shop. I suppose I'm just feeling bitter about the whole thing. I wouldn't mind so much if I smoked inside at home, but having a kid, I don't. It was therefore always one of my little luxuries in life to go out and be able to smoke inside. I'm kind of grateful I don't do drugs anymore. I can't imagine what it'd be like to go to a club, get fucked, and not be able to smoke.

Random shit

Shit, I guess now I’m going to have to do work. I had it all figured out. I’m on the train, with the laptop and thought I’d watch the last two episodes of The Sopranos and then I’d be halfway through my journey. But the two episodes I put on my key don’t work and stupid me didn’t test them before I left.

I also thought I’d do my knitting, but I’ve brought the pattern but not wool. Oh, and there’s that book I’m reading. Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’ve left it by my bed.

So I have nothing to do for four and a half hours other than write or stare into space. Write? Stare into space? Write? Stare into space? Okay, so the staring is tempting. But I’m also terrified that I’ve only got two months and I have to hand in fifteen thousand words. This is coupled with the fact I have totally change the way I am now doing my book which basically means I’m starting from scratch.

The new name for my book is Fifty four arrests and counting although I’m worried it might be fifty five after the weekend. I’ll be surprised if it’s not.

The previous incident recounted here about being thrown into a tree has resulted in police statements that accuse me of pushing through police lines to get to a photographer and obstructing the police taking photographs. Given this is what two people are already being done for, I’ d be surprised if they didn’t try and do me for it as well.

Not only this, but we have called for public resistance to the FIT team outside Saturday’s DISARM DSEi meeting. It’ll be interesting. I have no idea how many of us or them will turn up. One optimistic friend of mine keeps saying perhaps they won’t turn up. However I’d be amazed with this result as it would effectively mean we’d won by putting out a call against them. It is far more likely they’ll turn out in force.

Back to my writing. I’m now writing my own story. I feel slightly strange about this as I’ve listened to people for years telling me I should take myself out of my writing. I am also still dubious over whether people want to hear my story - I’ve always regarded it as an irrelevancy but enough people have told me it’s interesting to make me want to write it. Besides it means I can say more what I want to say in my book. One of the problems I was wresting with before was being objective and giving all actions the same treatment. This way I can still give advice and tips for people who want to do these actions, but I’m in a stronger place to say why I believe or don’t believe in a particular tactic. And yes, the biggest freedom is I’m allowed to say the clowns are shit!

My main problem with this writing is I have too much information. I thought about writing the story of each of the arrests but not only would this be very tedious after a while (not all actions are exciting – and there’s only a number of times you can describe sitting in a road, locking onto something, occupying things – before it gets boring – not to mention all the times spent in cells), but, more importantly, it perpetrates the myth that you have to get arrested in order to take direct action. My arrests are a small percentage of the number of actions I have done over the years and the focus should be on the actions and not the arrests. Also I believe more people should do covert actions when they don’t get nicked and are free to keep fighting rather than being bogged down with months of court cases and worry over possible penalties.

There was a time when I was going to three or four protests a week. I went back through my arrest record and my main thought was I was surprised I didn’t burn out earlier. In June 2001, I was arrested five times and went to Genoa. In June 2002, I was arrested four times including two very traumatic ones and three in one day in France (this, by the way, is still the record. I have yet to beat anyone who has beaten our record of three arrests in one day).

And then I keep getting sidetracked. One of the notes in my book is what was my first office occupation? And I have no idea. It may have been when we dressed as Father Christmas’ and took a load of cheap toys to the Foreign Office and told them they were for the Iraqi children suffering as a result of sanctions and refused to leave. I can’t think what else it might have been. But I can’t remember which one came after this, so I’m still left confused. If I didn’t get nicked for it, it isn’t on the list and therefore not easily accessible. I could go back through my old diaries – this is something I need to do in the course of writing this book. However at the moment this seems like procrastination. As does writing this blog. How I love a good procrastination.

My battery’s getting low – it probably wouldn’t have lasted the two episodes anyway. I always have laptops with shit battery life. Maybe it’s like my mobile phone paranoia. Every time I get a new mobile, it works brilliantly. I have loads of signal and crisp clean calls. Then, after anywhere between two weeks and a few months, the cops seem to catch up with it. Suddenly my phone goes in and out of signal and develops an echo whereby I can hear everything I’m saying repeated back to me. This gets more intense the nearer we get to major actions until it gets to the point where if you’re trying to hold a conversation with another bugged phone, there is too much interference on the line to make this possible.

Now I’ve lost the plot completely – yes (oh and Jen – I’m blaming you for all these hyphens/dashes – whatever the fuck they’re supposed to be called!) – some may say I never had much a grasp of plot in the first place, but now everything seems to be collapsing. Random words appear on the computer screen (just typed scream which seems more apt really) only to be subsumed by more random words all more meaningless than the last random words.

Shit, I really better stop now. Really better try and do some real work.

Fit Watch

A new blog has been created to monitor the activities of the Forward Intelligence Teams who routinely harass activists (amongst others).

A proposal for resistance and action can be seen at www.fitwatch.blogspot.com

Problems

I haven't blogged for ages. This is intended to be a short introductionary entry to bridge the gap.

I feel the same problem I used to feel when I kept diaries - so much has happened and where do I start? Do I attempt to catch up or do I simply start with what's going on now?

Only I feel really restless at the moment. I'm trying to do too many things and not feeling contented. Part of the problem is still not having internet access at home so it feels as though there are still loads of things I can't do when I want to do them. I keep trying to remind myself about how I used to live without this technology very easily, but I still find it frustrating.

So I will try and write here again. Honest.

Earlier this afternoon, I saw you fly through the air and land against a tree. Could you explain to me how this happened?

This was the first question my friend asked me on Saturday afternoon as he interviewed me for an independent radio station.

The flying through the air was the result of a hefty push from a friendly Forward Intelligence Officer who was trying to prevent me seeing why my friend was being arrested.

I was in London at the weekend for a DISARM DSEi public meeting. Defence Systems Equipment International is the world's largest arms fair and will be held at the ExCeL exhibition centre in East London from 11th-14th September 2007. As was explained by a sarcastic friend at the meeting, I'm the "person who's failed stopping DSEi for longer than any of us," which is sadly true having spent the last eight years of my life opposing this beast.

As is customary outside such meetings, there was a contingent from the Metropolitan Police's Forward Intelligence team outside the meeting. They claim they come to these meetings to gather intelligence, take photos and make notes of those attending. However their presence is purely intimidatory. They are trying to deter people from attending such meetings or protests.

Whilst we warn people attending meetings there might be a police presence, we have been ignoring them for years with nothing more than the occasional "fuck off" or giving the finger to the camera as we enter buildings. However my friend had decided she was fed up with it and wanted to do more.

She arrived with two signs saying "no to cameras" and "respect our privacy" on black card and she held these up to the camera, trying to prevent them from taking photos. She was not confrontational - simply held up the piece of paper and moved as the cameraman moved. She was joined by someone else who also helped. The cops didn't like this and were eventually forced into a situation where they had formed a line to protect their cameraman.

I asked my friend whether she was alright and went in to ULU as the meeting was starting. As I was waiting for the lift, I saw the cops move in to arrest the two of them. I ran over and tried to see what was going on and this was when I was pushed and flew through the air and landed in the tree.

Then everything went a bit surreal. There was a conflict resolution workshop going on at the same time as our meeting and suddenly all these conflict resolution people started shouting at the cops, telling them this was the sort of thing they were trying to sort out. One woman kept trying to pull me back, kept telling me I was getting hurt, and I kept trying to get her to back off.

However, unlike the last time a friend got nicked, I managed not to. A very small voice kept telling me I had to go the meeting. By this time at least half the meeting had made it down to the street after having witnessed the start of the incident from the third floor window.

We went back inside and started our meeting. However it was interesting because the act of confrontation, of having had a joint experience as a group made the meeting much stronger. People were much more vocal than they normally are at public meetings and it seemed a much stronger, cohesive meeting.

My friend was released at about half twelve and has been bailed to return on charges of Section 4 (public order act) and assault.

I was left thinking it was a really worthwhile action, something which we should definitely repeat. A lot of people remarked that they managed to get into the meeting without having their photos taken and it was good to challenge their right to be outside our meetings.

Totally brain dead

I've come to the conclusion I'm totally brain dead. I don't think I am capable of normal or even subnormal communication at the moment.

I've left this blog floating, in cyber space for longer than I meant and now I've got too much to catch up with. And it's the same as the dilemmas I used to face when I kept a daily diary - do I now spend my writing time catching up, or do I simply say where I am now? Really I should be in the moment, but given the moment is brain dead and I've had to force myself to type this, may past is better.

But I'm in avoidance mode either way. I don't want to write about how I feel. I feel shit, PMT is raging (and I wish for once in my life I'd remember to take Evening Primrose 'cos it does really help). We're into the petty details arguments couples have when they break up and I'm exhausted.

Jack was ill last week, so ill I ended up taking him to hospital at 11pm in paranoid mother mode. He woke up complaining of his neck hurting and the meningitis alarm bells rang. I got to the hospital and my friend was the doctor on call which was really lovely and made me feel lots better.

He's fine - he had a bad ear infection and his glands were up. And his been ill ever since. Today in fact is the first day he's seemed a lot better and should be able to go to nursery on Thursday. I finished my industry analysis whilst holding him, so I'm just praying it's good enough to pass. I'm not looking to do any more than that.

Talking of Jack, we've reached a milestone. He appears to be out of nappies. Just as I was beginning to doubt the non pressurised theory, he's done it. He hasn't worn a nappy for a week, day or night, and he's been completely dry.

And random things have occurred to me in the spirit of random things. I was buying a coffee in the Great Shakes place in town (good place if you want coffee up 'til 10pm) and they have 1p sweets. When I was a kid 1p sweets were half pence sweets, but considering the amount of inflation on everything else, 1p sweets seem to be a bargain. Although shows how cheap they are to make.

Trying to pinpoint a feeling

Drunken ramblings

This should be my guilt free night, but I still feel guilty. There's always guilt when you're a parent, certainly if you're a mother.

It's 1am, seagulls squarking and the faint rumble of cars penetrate the silence. No snuffling presences upstairs. Just me. Alone. In my house. And I haven't spent a night alone in years and I can't quite work out whether I love it or hate it. All I know is it's going to be a regular experience. I've never lived alone. I've always had partners, and whilst there were obviously nights we spent apart, I don't remember ever feeling single.

And it's a weird kind of loneliness. Evidence of Jack is everywhere. I'm sitting here writing this wrapped up in his scoobie doo blanket, staring at the beautiful pictures he's made me at nursery. I hope he's okay and having a good night with Barbara. His little world is very confused at the moment. He'll be resillent. Kids re. But I'm sad; sad I' chipping away at his ideal, at his iage of a perfect world. Because however niave it is, I want my beautiful boy to have a perfect world. He doesn't deserve anything less.

But the world we've been giving him is far from ideal. And we need to be happy in order to create a happy environent in which to raise him.

And maybe part of y proble is I'm still clinging to my ideal, y perfect vision of a happy couple bringing up a happy, healthy kid. I'm clinging to the relationship we had four years ago, when we wanted to bring a child into this world.

I cannot imagine what my life would be like now if I hadn't had Jack. My honest suspicion is I would have done something big, inevitably been caught and would now be in prison. Whatever it would have been, I can't imagine I would have left London, let alone be on this course in Falmouth, sitting here writing this. I certainly wouldn't have had the scoobie doo blanket.

I feel a great distance from reality at the moment. It is the only way I can cope. I've been joking about how I've pencilled in my breakdown for mid September. I'll get through everything until after DSEi, and then I'll collapse. Hopefully I'll get that far and I'm pretty sure there'll be some major hiccups along the way.

I Predict A Riot

Walking to collect Jack from nursery today, my i-pod randomly played "I predict a riot" and I was taken back to the Stirling anti G8 camp a couple of years ago. The night before the Stirling riots, it was pumped out of the music tent at full blast. Now I think of all those people shouting along with the lyrics and think they probably weren't the ones out confronting the police at 5am. They were the ones who consumed too much drink, too many drugs and were comatose by morning.

Having said this, music has been iconic on quite a few protests, in an almost cliched manner. Chumbawamba's "Tubthumping" was blaring out of the sound system atop a pick-up truck as the tear gas poured in at Genoa. Progidy's "Fuck 'em and their law"greeted the riot police from the multicoloured scaffolding tower on Claremont Road.

In other news, I've been working on my sample spreads for my non fiction book. I then got carried away and made them into a little sample book which I don't think I was meant to do, but enjoyed - sad really. Hardcore anarchist makes little sample book shock horror!

I've done no work on my novel or my industry analysis. Tomorrow I must, must, must try and get something done.

Busted and banned, single and sad

I haven't written all week, haven't been able to face the keyboard, haven't been able to face the reality of words.

My relationship has gone into total meltdown and I'm grieving for what we once had. I think of my beautiful boy and how this is tearing his little world apart and it breaks my heart. But what am I supposed to do? Neither of us can stay in this loveless, sexless relationship. Hopefully we will all be happier in the long run, but it doesn't feel like it at the moment.

No one else has blogged about what happened last week, so in order to protect the guilty, I will leave out all names.

Last Saturday I went out for the night. It's not something I get to do very often with a three year old, so I was really looking forward to it. And for the most part it was a lovely night and I got very drunk.

We went to a club to dance to crappy music and to shout at each other over expensive pints. My friend and I got involved in what we perceived to be a racial incident and I got thrown across the club. I was then threatened by a woman who told me I didn't know what was really going on and backed off as I was drunk and didn't know the full story.

We stayed until closing time, and on the way home, came across several police cars. My friend was bet £10 that she wouldn't run over the top of the car. This was the red rag to the bull and she gladly took them up on the generous offer. However as she got down, she was told she was nicked and was led off to a police car.

Now, where I come from, you can't watch a friend get nicked and not do anything. So myself and her partner argued. We pointed to the top of the car and asked to be shown the damage she had caused. I swore more often than I would normally have done sober, but all I was doing was questionning the legality of the arrest.

We had our argument, realised we were getting nowhere and turned to leave. I made one last parting comment about the whole thing being "fucking ridiculous" and that was it. It was one comment too far and I suddenly found myself, once again, face down on the pavement.

A random, fat, bald man, who'd been itching to get involved, helped arrest me. The first time I've ever had a random civilian help arrest me. Afterwards, I've been told, he also assaulted my friend.

We got taken to a deserted Falmouth police station. I was put in an interview room and told they were going to deal with us by way of fixed penalty notices, but we had to come back the next day as they couldn't issue them when we were drunk.

So, less than an hour after arrest, we were back with our friends, which was quite a result given they were threatening to take us to Camborne.

Two days later, I received a letter in the post telling me I had an interim "pubwatch" ban, giving a long list of places I couldn't go and saying I could make written representations for their next meeting. Helpfully, there was no date given for their next meeting.

Then yesterday, I received a letter telling me they'd had their meeting and had unanimously decided to ban me for three months. My friend has received no such ban, so I can only presume mine is due to my long record and a police file that screams troublemaker.

And I really wish I could see the funny side, but I can't. I just feel victimised. The list includes places I take Jack for coffee and food and it just means more hassle. I plan to ignore it, but I can't risk ignoring it when I'm with Jack. I'm going to appeal but I don't fancy my chances if I'm honest. I'm also contesting the drunk and disorderly charge, both as a point of principle and because I want to know who the bald fucker was who's fucked up my wrist.

So now I'm feeling shaky and sad. Sad because of my relationship breakdown, shacky becuase Falmouth was my safe space. I came to Falmouth becuse I wanted to get away from police harassment, get away from the assaults and arrests. And now I'm feeling like it might be starting all over again. Being known as a troublemaker in a small town can never be good.

His belt was over his penis and a feminist rant

My Grandma is 90. She has a degenerative eye condition which means she cannot see very well but she is also a prolific knitter. At the moment she is knitting toy figures (fireman, policeman, footballer etc) for her sister (aged 89) to sell for charity.

Given her eyesight, she often gives fiddly bits, such as sewing on belts to my Mum to do. My mum had sewn one such belt onto the last fireman she had made.

We were sitting in an Italian restaurant in Helston and she suddenly announced to the room,

“I had to sew that belt on again, it was too low, it covered his penis.”

“Oh, that’ll never do,” I like to gently tease her at times.

“Well no, it covered his thingimy jig. I couldn’t send him off like that.”

“I know,” I smiled at her, “if you want a job done properly, you should do it yourself.”

“The point is dear,” she continued, “I can’t see to do it myself.”

I’ve long known that my Grandma’s eye condition is subjective. I don’t doubt for a minute she has difficulty seeing, but there are times when her eyesight is remarkably good. For example, I’ve worn clothes with holes when visiting her, on the basis that she wouldn’t be able to see them. But she always does. Maybe it’s a kind of sixth sense of the elderly – know when your granddaughter is not properly attired for a visit and know when a belt is sewn over a fireman’s penis.

However, I was also curious. Maybe she does knit little penises for her dolls, maybe, they are in fact some weird sex toy. I checked Jack’s when I got home and was relieved to find it sexless. And how’s this for being a bad feminist, I’ve only just realised I never questioned why the fireman was a man.

Which is also a serious point because it makes me realise how many times in a day we accept gender stereotypes without question. I’m not one of those activists that yells “patriarchy” at everyone and everything, but it is still important to recognise the number of times gender stereotypes are enforced every day of our lives.

At the moment this is painfully clear in the media portrayal of the female sailor captured in Iran. Once again, we are shown that we must be treated differently if we are women. Anything happening to women is more outrageous than if it happened to our male counterparts.

She’s a mother, don’t you know. So fucking what? She knew she was a mother when she agreed to go to Iraq. She knew the risk she was taking and she must have believed it was worth it. Whilst I completely disagree with her politics (and whilst obviously I have no idea what her politics are, I can make a pretty sure bet that anyone who joins the navy is going to have pretty much opposite views to an anti war anarchist), she obviously felt what she was doing was important enough to leave her child to join the fight.

As an activist, this is a struggle I know well. I have to weigh up the choices each and every time I go on an action. Are the benefits worth the separation from my child if things go wrong? Usually they’re not and this is reflected in the type of activism I’m involved with. I’m not going to risk anything where I could go to prison for ten years or more because I don’t believe it would be fair on Jack. There is nothing I could achieve which would be worth separating a son from his mother.

And where are the fathers in all of this? Fathers are never criticized for doing dangerous things, never given preferential treatment because of the parental status. Why not? Father’s should be just as important in a child’s life and the decisions attached to being a father and undertaking dangerous actions should be the same.

I'm left thinking how on earth do I bring up my son so as not to fall into all these gender sterotypes? And I think it's impossible. All I can do is help him question assumptions, especially the assumptions made everydy in the media, assumptions we are supposed to accept without question.

Truro Tantrums

The day started well enough. Sunny, bright, all that kind of thing. I rang my sister (www.lucyapple.com) who was coming back from London and arranged to meet her at Truro.

Then the post came. I'm currently suing the Metropolitan Police for four wrongful arrests and three assaults (two of which were when I was pregnant). I'm not getting legal aid, so I'm representing myself and don't have a clue what I'm doing. I've represented myself in many criminal cases, but civil ones are totally different, so I'm making it up as I go along.

The case is at a stage where I knew I had to serve what is called an "allocation questionnaire". However I believed I still had a month to complete the document. So I was surprised when I received the defence's questionnaire in the post. So far, they have served every document on the last possible day, which at least gave me the idea of checking the date.

Yes, you've guessed it. The final date for service was 27th March. I frantically rant the court and established it was acceptable to fax the questionnaire. Unfortunately I don't have a fax, but I had a dim recollection I could send them at the library.

I spent the next hour wading through two boxfiles and two lever arch folders of legal documents (and as I'm writing this, I've remembered I've forgotton to add in the name of the psychiatrist) and trying to waffle my way through the form.

So, I figured, go to Truro an hour early, send the faxes and go to Mothercare (to buy a toilet seat for Jack in a probably futile bid to banish the potty from our lives).

It started well, Jack even helping me tidy up because he was excited about seeing his Auntie "Lu Lu". The library was where it started going wrong.

Jack ran straight into the children's section. Seated on the floor with her two toddlers was a yummy fucking mummy - all nicely dressed and well spoken. I rushed in, messy, dodgy anarcho parent, saying to Jack "you'll be okay to stay here while I go down there to sort my stuff out."

He agreed. I pointed to where I was going and left to evil stares.

I didn't leave him for long, I checked on him every couple of minutes. Whilst this was going on, I received a panicky call from my sister, saying she was still in Plymouth and had to change trains. Lucy doesn't like changing trains because it is awkawrd with her disability and it's pot luck as to whether anyone will offer to give her a hand.

So, given more time to kill, I decided to browse through the older kids books, as on a good day, Jack will listen to longer stories. Amongst these books was William Horwoods, "Skallagrigg", a deeply disturbing and graphic account of disability. Whilst not wanting to censor what kids read, I figuered it could really disturb an eight year old, so thought I'd be a good citizen and take it to the desk for refiling.

"Excuse me. I found this in the children's section. It doesn't belong there."

"Yes it does. He writes for children." Prim, stuck up librarian."

"No he doesn't. Trust me this is not a kid's book." I was struggling to remain calm.

"Yes it is." She was stubborn. And then it came to me and I was calm and polite,

"Well. Personally I don't mind if my child reads something that repeatedly contains the word 'fuck', but I think you'll find a lot of other parents will object."

She flicked through the book.

"Yes, this is an adult's book."

"Yes, I know."

"Oh, well. He normally writes for children."

"No he doesn't. His re written the Wind in the Willows but the rest of his work is for adults."

She didn't say anything and I left seething at her smugness.

Back to the car to pay for another extortionate hour's parking, and Jack started playing up. Now, I'm a pretty libertarian parent, but road safety (or should that be car safety, given road safety seems to be a nice euphemism to pretend cars aren't the real problem), turns me into a shrieking banshee. Jack, unfortunately knows this. And the more hysterical I got, the more he laughed at me. And more the fucking yummy mummys stared, tutting their self-righteous smugness.

I needed coffee. We waited in line. I told Jack he could have a juice but I wouldn't buy him a treat. Suddenly there was a little hand on mine,

"Sorry, Emily."

I thanked him for saying sorry but I still wasn't going to buy him anything, although I compromised on a croissant. We sat on a bench outside because there's nowhere you can go and get a coffee and have a fag anymore (yes, I know. Another of those great maternal habits. Although I'd like to point out I don't smoke inside at home - therefore the odd occasions I'm out and get to have a fag inside are a realy luxury).

I apologised to Jack for being so cross and asked him whether he knew why I was so cross. He told me it was because of the roads and I explained the forever spoken parental cry of "it's only because I love you."

And all the way back to the car he held my hand and chatted and I felt things were right again.

Banks and mobile phones

Any post with the above title cannot be good. Unless I've been transported into a strange magical universe where banks and mobile phone companies are full of beautiful, caring sharing people who want nothing more than to strive a better, more beautiful world for themselves and generations to come.

No? Didn't think so.

It started yesterday when I discovered how little rent money was in my bank account and how much I was going to have to borrow. I went through my bank statement - something I can rarely bring myself to do - and discovered I had been charged £38 for a standing order for £4.99 for phone insurance I never wanted in the first place.

Ha, I thought, I've read a bit about the fiasco surrounding bank charges recently, I should be able to claim these back.

Of course it wasn't that simple. Apparently this is not something I can discuss over the phone. There's a special department sent up to deal with the recent claims on bank charges. Can I have the address? Of course not. I must write to my branch and they will forward it to the correct department.

However, I won a partial victory. He agreed to refund half the money, claiming it wasn't within his power to give any further deduction.

Then it was onto the mobile phone. I'd be suckered into a contract phone simply because I was so surprised any company would give me credit for one. The half price, £20ish tariff seemed manageable and I was assured I would be able to downgrade easily once the six month half price offer had run out.

However when I went back to the shop (Jag), I was told I wouldn't be able to downgrade for another three months and when I did, it would cost me £25. I complained and the branch manager assured me who would refund the difference in three months.

So, after three months of paying £45 a month, I went back into the shop today. I was told I was allowed to downgrade for free - fantastic I thought - however this scheme would only let me download onetariff at a time which basically took me down to £40 a month. Great. I agreed to pay £25 in order to downgrade to a £25 a month package - the cheapest one I could get. However I was then told this would't take effect until next month which would have meant nearly £80 coming out of my account on the same day as the rent.

I got angry. I wouldn't have minded so much if the phone worked well. But the backlight packed in after a couple of months and the battery life is abyismal. However I managed to remember to get the money back before I stormed out of the shop in rage and got them to issue me a cheque for £30 (I didn't have the energy to try and argue for more).

I then went to the bank and cancelled all standing orders and direct debits other than my rent, including my gym membership which I haven't used since August. Fuck 'em. I don't have a good credit rating and I don't own anything - so come on, do your worst!

So, if a funny kind of a way, I came out on top. I gained an extra £50, but somehow felt very unsatisfied and annoyed.

And then, in final revenge, I dropped my phone. I plugged it into the charger and discovered the screen is now broken. I then had two frustrating beeps as text messages beamed, undechiprable, onto my phone.
xx

Should I stay or should i go?

Yes, it's been one of those sorts of conversations, the sort where we discuss whether we stay in a sexless relationship because of Jack and ends with me in tears. We've had these eliptical discussions many times, but they never lead to any conclusions.

I hate the breakdown and break ups of relationships. It is something I have always been bad at, always staying so much longer than I should. Only this is different because we are friends. We do get on well, but there's nothing more than friendship left. And I no longer know what is for the best.

But I'm trying not to think about it. I always find denial useful if not very helpful. What will be will be and a thousand other cliches. My brain switches off whenever I try to think about it and all I'm left with is a need to sleep.

I need to do college work today, but I'm putting it off. I can't seem to get motivated about anything.

Although all of this is probably due to the fact that my mind and body are a swirling mess of PMT. I am the irrational bitch from hell when I have PMT. Either that or a pathetic burbling puddle on the floor. I think I'm more of a puddle at the moment. I'm finding it difficult to find inspiration even though I know i need to work even if I don't find it inspiring. Not everything can be inspirational after all. The inspirational projects are few and far between but I still have to tread the water and complete the boring shit as well.

I think I'm going to go and make a list of all the things. It's a nice bit of procrastintion which will also hopefully help me recognise and prioritise what I need to do.

xx

G8 guilt

I had one of those conversations this morning. The sort of conversation which starts, "you've put on weight" is never going to be a good one.

My reply was "I need to get fit in time for Germany." I'm planning to go to the protests against the G8 summit in June http://dissent.org.uk/content/view/293/1/

However this was greeted with a rant about how irresponsible I was, how I shouldn't go because of Jack and how it's much more important to focus on local politics than travelling to international summits.

Now I've got G8 guilt and I'm not sure what to do. I have some bullshit in my head about how i'm going as a writer but I know this is not convincing.

Maybe I'm being naive in my belief of "of course I'm going to be alright" which is my general mantra in life along with "everything will be ok in the end." Admittedly, we (as in London anarchos) tend to lose roughly one person to each global summit (sentences ranging from about two weeks to a year).

I've been to five global summits and I've been nicked at two and never been charged. I've been traumatised in different ways by three of them.

Politically, I have mixed feelings. Whilst I believe we have to oppose the G8, summit protest is a spectacle. We will not stop the G8, and even if we did, what good would it actually create in the world? However, in total contradiction, I do believe it is important to have mass protests as a show of force, to prove to both us and them what we are capable of.

Stay out of trouble? Unlikely. It's not really me. Besides I got nicked at the G8 in Scotland for driving a minibus whilst trying to stay out of trouble.

I'm not just "rent-a-mob" - honest!

Just to prove I'm not just "rent-a-mob" - the company I went to protest at last week was BearingPoint.

More information can be found on them through the links here http://www.indymedia.org.uk/en/2007/03/365650.html - in case anyone's interested!!

xx

When to intervene?

I haven't had internet access for a few days - Tiscali promised us we'd have it in seven to ten days, but are now saying it's going to be another seven to ten days.

But I'm at the shop today and trying to catch up with lots of things including this post which I wanted to write when I got off the train.

One of the things I never know is when to intervene with people who have kids. This is partly due to my own reaction as a mother which is inevitably tell people to "fuck off". I take intervention personally and it is very rarely welcome.

A mother got on the train at Paddington with a girl who I' guessing was somewhere between two and three - she seemed younger than Jack. She got on in a bit of a fluster as the guard had helped her on to the family carriage and she had seats booked somewhere else. I was sitting in the family carriage because there are two seats there with a big table which are, in my opinion, the best seats on the train.

Being a human being, I gave up my seat for her and sat behind her. During this encounter, she was glued to her mobile, giving a running commentary to whatever friend she was speaking to.

Fine. However the only times she got off her phone were when the signal cut out. Meanwhile her daughter was getting progressively more bored and was obviously desperate for attention. Her response was to moan to the friend about how her daughter was doing her head in. At one point she smacked the kid's arm for pulling off the head rest pieces of fabric (what is the point of those things anyway?) Not a huge wallop by any stretch of the imagination, but enough to make me wince.

But it wasn't so much the smack, but the fact this child needed attention, needed someone to interact and play with her. It was on the tip of my tongue to say something, to say give your child a cuddle and play with her instead of bitching at her for being a toddler.

I like to think my lack of communication wasn't down to listening to her conversation about how many fights she had got into in various clubs but I'm sure it didn't help. But ultimately it was because I knew my response to intervention would have been aggressive.

She got off the train at Newton Abbot and I still can't work out whether I should have said something.

Oh, and what is it with people who do loads of things whilst on the phone so their neck's are constantly cricked? Don't they feel it? If I did that I'd be in pain. Maybe it's practice (although not something I'd want to practice). I'd rather abolish mobiles, not having the convenience of a mobile would be far better than listening to other's people constant drivel.

xx

Blogging addiction

I think I may be addicted blogging. It's perfect for someone with me with mild OCD. Not bad enough to be a problem, but bad enough I can check my emails over thirty times a day.

I think I may have just splattered drunken ramblings all over the world wide web of my friend's blogs.

But, and fuck you Christina, you're right. It's got me writing again. At a time where I haven't felt I have the time to write freely, it's broken the ice.

Admittedly being in London without Jack has helped time constraints considerably.

And I don't think I care anymore. Reading some of my friend's beautiful and honest blogs has really inspired me.

I'm tough when I need to be. I'm vulnerable when I need to be. I don't lose anything by admitting this. It means I'm human. I think I used to try and convince myself I was some kind of uber activist and therefore I shouldn't let anything get to me.

I didn't cry out in pain, didn't mention it at all when I got nicked. And it was really fucking painful, the most pain I've been in since childbirth (which, because of it's sustained nature, nothing ever comes close!).

The point is I can still do it. But now the pain that is left in my back, arms and wrists is a more vulnerable pain. The pain I don't like admitting to. The pain that accompanies the knowledge I have been through an ordeal I haven't managed to process. The pain that has made my writing get smaller on the page as I'm trying to write about it. My writing is trying to hide from some other part of my psyche who is battling to deal with it.

camping cups

Just wondering whether anyone else does this.

I'm staying with my friend in London who I've always had a bit of a strange psychic link with (we had a phase when we either finished each other's sentences or said exactly the same thing at exactly the same time).

As I was going to bed I said I had a strange question for her. I wanted to know whether she had a camping cup. I've got in the habit of using a big camping cup when I'm writing as it keeps the tea hot for a long time and I always forget my tea when I'm writing.

Anyway she knew exactly what I meant and does the same thing. And so, in a not very interesting fashion, I wondered whether anyone else shared this habit.

Another fun day at the office

Firstly, hi to everyone and thanks for the comments. Will answer more fully later as I got nicked again today and used the time to write a blog entry (actually had a custody sergeant who agreed with me that it was my right to have writing materials), so I'm going to try and type it up now before and lose momentum and crash into a small and helpless bundle on the floor.

"Fantastic. I have pen and paper so I may be able to do some work. Arrested for handing out flyers and everything aches. Well my arms and my back more than anything else. So locked in another cell. No crimestoppers number today. I'm probably not going to get out in time for Mark's show.

Just for the record, police station microwaved vegan vegetable chili is just as disgusting as ever. Strange food that doesn't seem to taste of anything but still manages to be totally inedible. I've eaten enough to cover being hungry but I can't face anymore. They've got new safety forks with such a spongy end it won't pick up the pieces of corn.

As ever in these situations, it is time to play the waiting game. I sit, locked in here, until the clogged up wheels of justice (the cops making sure their creative fictions match in the canteen) turn and we all get to waste time on a no comment interview before they decide whether or not their going to charge me. Basically I'm going to be here for many more hours - just hope I get out in time to make the pub. A gal's got to have priorities don't you know!

I find cells difficult to write in. The lights are too bright and there always has to be an internal censor [even more than out here]. Being locked up always makes me want to sleep, although that could also be a repsonse to the let up in adrenalin. If in doubt, sleep. That's always been my motto.

This cell it tiled. White with royal blue edging and a two deep strip running around the cell. The door is standard, silver grey metal with spyhole and hatch for passing things in and out without having to unlock the door. The blanket's better than usual. More of a padded affair, not as rough or with as many flakey bits than the usual startch bright blue ones. This one is a darker blue with red stitching forming either diamonds or squares depending on which way round it's supposed to go. However I'm not bored enough to stand up and spread this one out to see which is the correct way round. Maybe later. There's more of a barred effect in this cell. Most of the English police cells I've been in have opaque squares as a window. This cell has seven white strips running down. Not bars as they are not set away the wall, more built into it.

This is the first time I have been arrested in The City which is strange as I'm surprised it's taken this long. So i sit. I think I'm going to ring the bell and ask for toilet paper and another cup of water.

So I try to write. Toilet paper received. And a newspaper a friend has dropped in. I forgot to mention the glass ball on the ceiling earlier, built in reflecting my small world in an even smaller minature.

I'm getting bored now. I think it's dark outside but I can't really tell. I've asked for coffee, and when they bring it, I'll ask what the time is. They took my watch. I hate it when they do that. I can sometimes persuade them to let me keep it in London, but not here.

By the way, they're diamonds, not squares. In case you were worried about the incompletness of this narrative.

There isn't much to report. I know I've been here for a few hours because the fluorescent lights are beginning to hurt my eyes. Prison ballads are pretty dull really - I sat in a cell. I might as well just write the cat sat on the fucking mat.

They've brought me coffee. As I suspected, it is piping hot, burning to the mouth. Somehow I might injure myself with the zip of my hoodie, or my watch, but scalding hot coffee is okay. Maybe burns don't count as self-harm.

Just been informed they're going to do fingerprints and photograph after coffee (oh it's very civilised here). I said no to DNA, said it was confirmed and that was cool so I'm not going to fight over the rest. I'm not sure I've got the energy. Somedays I think it's worth the struggles, other days, such as today, I can feel a certain amount of pragmaticism creeping in. Go through the motions, sign the boxes (although not the one that confirms they're your fingerprints - I never sign that one) and hopefully get one stage further on the path of release. Follow the yellow brick road, confront the wicked witch and hopefully get out in time for last orders.

Well, that's done and dusted. No blank ink stains from fingerprinting anymore. Everything is done by machines because machines have to rule every aspect of our lives. Apparantly they've got me some fruit. I haven't seen it yet, but it'd be nice as I'm still hungry from the vegetable chilli. I think it's about six now which means I've been here for about four hours. Cops are still busy concocting their stories. No sign of when they're going to interview us.

The custody staff here seem to be okay. No real complaints other than the initial request for a "more thorough" search, although not a strip search. I didn't resist. I would have resisted a full strip search. The cop taking my fingerprints thanked me for co operating. At least you get more gratitude when you're known to be an arsey bitch.

Oh - two apples and a banana. Nice apple too. Just what the doctor ordered. Banana's good too. I try to eat locally as much as possible. But you don't get much Cornish winter fruit which is a bit of a bugger. I'm saving one apple for later. Hey, I've got an idea. Maybe I could use the apple to escape, it's a good weight and I've got the banana skin to trip them up. And another scalding coffee into the mix and I might have a plan. Oh, and I'm sure I could poke out a couple of eyes with this pen. Only joking. Honest. A friend told me that once, after he had been arrested, dreamt he had managed an armed raid on the poilce station and had set everyone free. He was gutted when he woke up to hard foam and a locked door.

The need to smoke factor is rearing it's ugly head. I'm trying not to think about it but I can feel the pangs. There's no smoking here. No outside space. Although I've been told that at other police stations and subsequently found out they've been lying. Never trust a police officer, that's my motto."

And then I was released. They claimed to have enough evidence to charge me but had decided it wouldn't be in the public interest to pursue it any further.

If anyone's managed to reach this point in the post, I should probably explain what happened. I didn't feel comfortable doing this in the police cell.

It was the anniversary of the start of the war in Iraq today and the day had been called as a day of international action against the war. I was coming to London anyway for my book and industry analysis, so I volunteered myself for whatever was going on.

We held a noise demo outside a company benefitting out of Iraqi oil (my brain is frazzled and I can't remember the fucking name of the company). The company is based in a private square near Saint Pauls. Police turned up, moved us to the other side of the square. Myself and two friends decided to leaflet people as they entered and left the square. Nothing too controversial.

I was being followed by FIT (forward intelligence teams - people who make a living out of harassing anarchists). At first they told me as I had left the demonstration, I was now not allowed to return to the demonstration. I was handing out leaflets and ignored them. Then they told me that I had to either return to the demonstration or leave the area as directed under Section 14 (conditions a senior officer can impose on a demonstration). We carried handing out leaflets. The cops informed my friends that what they had said to me also applied to them. We carried on handing out leaflets. I didn't really think they were going to nick us.

However the waiting vans of cops thought differently. As they poured out of the vans we made a vain and desperate attempt to get away. I think I ran about four paces before stopped. It seemed to take about six of them to stop me which seemed somewhat excessive. I remember looking down, or rather being forced down and seeing many many pairs of black legs.

After a short delay while they sat on me, they found their handcuffs and nicked me. I refused to co operate mostly because my friend wasn't and I felt I should show solidarity. I was dragged by cops who stated "they didn't mind if they broke my arm", who after a cop suggested they should use four people to carry me stated "we'll drag her, it'll serve her right" and finally when one of the other cops pointed out that he was dragging me by gripping and twisting one of the handcuffs, or as he put it, "mind her wrist" was told "I don't care about her wrist." Nice. It's strange with those kind of comments. I hear them at the time but somehow my brain does some weird processing function where it shuts down. The information isn't allowed to go in deep enough to freak me out.

So, I'm feeling a bit bruised and battered right now. I'm also peetering out partly because my friends have come back and I feel rude sitting here typing.

This is a very rambling unedited account but don't think I have the energy for anything else tonight.

Jack's haircut

Jack's first haircut. That's something I want to rant about. I took him to the kid friendly place in town. The kids get to sit in red plastic cars and watch DVDs. I didn't want him to get his hair cut. I loved his beautiful soft baby curls. But they were getting unmanagable. He is neither the kid, nor I the parent for a daily hair brushing routine (getting him to do his teeth is bad enough).

So, finally, we got to the point last week where one of the curls started dreading and I conceeded to the haircutting.

The £8 charge seemed reasonable given the mess I would have made of it, so I booked him in. My instructions were specific. I wanted something that wasn't too short, wasn't too severe and cut into I realise know the only way to get the hair cut I wanted would have been to call him Jacqueline for day and then they'd never have gone for the short monstrosity he was left with. I was practically in tears by the time I intervened and begged the stylist to keep some of the volume in the back, the only big which was still looking okay until she started attacking it with her sicissors.

"He looks like a proper boy now," they cooed afterwards. Who the fuck are you sto say what a boy should look like? How dare you enforce your gender politics onto my child. Only I didn't say anything. I mumbled thanks and paid. Hairdressers are one of those scary places where I lose my voice. I don't know why they intimidate me so much. I can face lines of riot cops but can't confront a hairdresser.

But don't get me wrong. My beautiful boy is still my beautiful boy. Hair means nothing and besides, will quite obviously grow back. And most importantly his hair is no longer irritating him.

It's just the attitude, the arrogance needed to impose a stereotype in contradiction to what I had asked for.

In classic form, at first I blamed myself - maybe I wasn't specific enough. But for fuck's ske, how short would she have gone if I said I'd wanted it short!

Blogging again

How am I feeling? Honestly, nervous and apprehensive, although this covers several areas of my life. But this feeling of apprehension I used to feel all the time. I used to run on so much nervous energy, I didn't have any energy for anything else.

Christina, if you read this, don't say "I told you so" but I think I might be getting more a handle on this blog business. It provides an excuse to ramble. It gives the freedom to right without the constraints of either my novel or my drier non fiction project.

Just me, my notebook and music. The music still has to be there. But I'm going to give this a go.

Conclusions on Blogging

I was fervently hoping that this was going to be the conclusion of my blog, although I have been informed that I must still update it.

I hate and resent being forced to add to the noise on the internet. We are jammed full with personal narratives and obsessions. MySpace and every other blogging site is an abomination of noise.

Does this make me a snob? As an anarchist I am totally in favour of open access publishing. However I have a problem with the presumption that someone wants to read the minutiae of my life, my processes, whatever it is we choose to share.

I want to speak. I want to have a voice. But, perversely, this doesn't come close to fulfilling this need.

I don't believe I have anything of value to add to a blog. When I was a full time activist, if the technology had been popular, maybe it would have been interesting. Even back then there would have been a limit to the number of times I could post “got nicked again” and “I'm worried I'm going to get sent to prison”, before it became boring.

It just seems so self indulgent to presume that anyone has the slightest interest in random blogging.

Okay, so I could be crafting beautiful posts. I could be showcasing my ability as a writer. It doesn't have to be a boring diary.

I just don't like the format. I'd much prefer these thoughts and processes remained here in my notebook where they belong.

There are also legal issues I have to consider. Any blog I write will never be totally open and honest because the State can read it. Cops who hound and harass me can read it.

And this may seem like raving paranoia or an inflated ego, but it is founded on reality, on years of harassment.

A few years ago, I was arrested and my house searched. The cops took my personal diaries, diaries I had not shared with anyone. These diaries catalogued my vulnerabilities.

As a very active activist, I had been on the receiving end of a lot of harassment, from violent wrongful arrests, to being followed, and having my photograph taken whenever I spoke to anyone at a demonstration. All of this mental and physical pain had been poured onto those pages.

Out on the streets, I was hardcore. I was sarcastic and arsey. Uncooperative and wilful. I never cried. I never asked them to loosen handcuffs even if I'd lost all circulation to my hands. I didn't show weakness. I didn't give an inch.

But back at home, after a few spliffs and the wearing off of the post adrenalin buzz, I sat, and documented the pain, the fear, the mental exhaustion I felt after a day on the front line.

So when the cops took my diaries, it threw me over the edge. I felt they had broken me. I felt weak and shaky. My enemy had my innermost secrets and I no longer knew how to cope.

Unfortunately I found my coping mechanism in the bottom of the vodka bottle. Not to mention the whiskey bottle, the wine bottle and the gin bottle.

But it was the tequila that finished me off. We drank more bottles than any of us can remember. We drank until I ripped my stomach lining and threw up a large quantity of blood and was rushed to hospital in an ambulance. Once there, I hallucinated cops in the place of paramedics, and only avoided being sectioned by a very patient friend explaining my background.

So you see, it isn't simple, sharing my thoughts on the World Wide Web. I can write articles, I can write stories. I can write anything that is finely edited and has a direct purpose. But this, this sharing of emotion and processes makes me feel too vulnerable.

I may not like the noise, but I could overcome this if it wasn't for the vulnerability. It is the vulnerability that is crippling. It's the vulnerability that blocks my path when I try to update these pages and it is vulnerability that has scarred me, stained me.
It took me a long time to start writing again. It's a cliché, but it's been a long and hard journey but I feel happy writing again. It's just maybe this is a step too far, a step I'm not yet ready for; a step I shouldn't be forced to take.

Feeling Down

Before
15/11/06
I’m in a bad mood but I’m also realising that I haven’t been in a bad for ages. Not this kind of thick malignant fog anyway.

My I-Pod’s refusing to working. Technology has failed me which would be ironic if it wasn’t so fucking frustrating.

And I’ve left my glasses downstairs. This isn’t a problem of simple laziness. Jack is downstairs and is happy with my parents, but if I go down and he spots me, then I lose the opportunity to write. Besides, I’ve been wearing them too much recently.

My I-Pod is showing a sad face and an exclamation mart but is now moving between this and the Apple logo which seems more promising than a totally blank screen. I’m hoping that the batteries are just totally drained and it will sort itself out once it has been plugged in for a while.

I know, I know. You’re waiting on tentahooks for the conclusion of this riverting thriller. But fear not, my friends, I will keep you updated.

A gale is blowing up outside, The sound of the wind and the rain make me shiver although I am not cold. I am writing upstairs on the little table which is just the right size for the bed., I have one sidelight on. It is cosy.

But I feel fat. I feel my stomach expanding against my jeans; jeans that last year were too big for me.

My shoulder’s also bothering me. The numbness still the result of the two hours I spent handcuffed at Sack Parliament.

But it is my massive midriff that is my real preoccupation, my main cause of sadness. I keep seeming to pile on the weight. I think maybe it’s partly down to my medication, but my diet has ben crap recently: whole packets of biscuits demolished in one sitting. It’s not good.

Still no I-Pod. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten my promise. At least if there’s music I might move. And if I move at least there’s some chnce of losing some calories.

I don’t want to be a weight obsessed freak, I really don’t.

Well, that’s good. I’ve changed Jack, got my glasses and now my I-Pod is working again.

Oh, yes, that was it, feeling fat. I went into New Look a few weeks ago, and tried on some black combats, a hoodie and a gillet. I look in the mirror and all I could see was a fat version of my former image. Totally gutting.

Novel thoughts

Before
Novel Thoughts
I want to write about the nature of my novel, my novel with its peculiar soundtrack. A novel that explores our relationship to music as much as anything else. I think I want to stick with it for now, although I might revise some of the track listings. And I need to heavily edit what I’ve already done. Although, here’s the key. I need to just start writing bits again and forget about the finished overview. Stop worrying what I may have written somewhere and where this might fit into the narrative.

I don’t kneed to remember what comes wehre and what I have or have not decided to include. This is all up for grabs again which is quite exciting. I had something that to my mind was set in stone and which has now become a crumbling edifice which can be rebuilt in any series of combinations and designs. It is very exciting.

Hackney

Before
Hackney
I don’t miss Hackney. I don’t miss the crack hores, the stink of nail air brushing chemicals and bus exhausts. I don’t miss the animalistic charge round Primark stepping over the detritus of the frenzy as patrons discard garments over the floor. The snake has shed it’s skin and has been reborn in a florescent glow on a Sunday afternoon. God bless sweat shop labour and that’s not even counting the UK employees.

Thoughts on MA

Before:
Thoughts on MA Course
I am feeling increasingly confident in my skills through doing my course. I’m learning to be precise, I’m learning to think about every word, about whether the narrative is consistent, whether the right image is being created.

I feel very alert. Super wired. I’m on a long elastic band waiting to be twanged.

But I am also feeling swamped. I feel like I’ve got too much to think about and there’s only so many projects that my head can hold onto. It’s difficult because I can’t settle on anything, just lots of works in progress.

Yes, we all know that this is because I have a fear of completion. A fear of having to say this is finished, please read. Even articles I’ve written have been up to the deadline because I’m afraid that I can’t do it. I need the deadline to make me do it, to prove I can do it.

Only this course has given me more confidence, I can do it. It’s not a fluke. When I have to, I can sit down and write and something reasonably coherent comes out the other end.

Well, one last note to myself. DON’T PANIC. This is the key to all of this. If I can keep calm then I can keep on top of things. And if think things are coming on top, then I need to prioritise.

I suppose I’m worried because I’ve got so many different threads running through my head and I’m worried they’re going to tangle themselves into one large inscrutable knot.

If nothing else, this course has got me writing every day again. And it’s got to the point where I’m writing automatically. I find myself sitting with my notebook and pen almost subconsciously; my notebook has become an extension of myself

Thoughts

Before:
Fresh starts. Fresh perspectives. A blank page. I’m afraid of the blank page.There’s so much I need to write. I’ve deliberately left all my old notebooks at home today so that I can just experiment with the potential of the new. I need progression not reflection at the moment.I’m waffling and I can’t seem to stop. I am on cruise control and the auto pilot has jammed. The record keeps skipping, scratching without style. Tripping up like a small child learning to skip.I need to write about fighting, about feeling strong and powerful. About believing. About passion. About a longing to achieve something tangible. About saying “fuck you baby, I’m an anarchist. Let’s flip a finger to society and all that sails in her.”But more subtly, about the power that comes with experience and about seriousness. About being focussed. About being sure. About feeling that there is no other option. Any other option would render me a hypocrite and I want to be true to myself – this has always been my ultimate aim. I will take them on and I will win because I have to win. I will triumph, morally at least. Practicalities are always harder.