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.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
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
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
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
Saturday, March 24, 2007
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.
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
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
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
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, March 19, 2007
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.
"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!
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.
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.
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