WOMEN’S RIGHTS REMEMBERED

Sometimes one does something because one thinks they ought, not because they feel passionate about it, and this was the very situation I found myself in the 1970s.  It was the era of Campaign Marches.  Ban the Bomb, still going on from the 60s, (some of those protesters looked as though they had been marching non-stop since the 60s, scruffy lot they were!)  Stop the Fur Trade, something we eventually managed to do in the UK, making it illegal to farm fur., and of course, Women’s Rights.  It was the name that inspired me.  I was after all a married woman in my twenties and therefore eminently qualified to get myself some rights.  The trouble was I was not quite sure at that time just what I would be protesting for!  Equal Pay?  Well I was a secretary and very well paid and would never have expected my boss to drop his wages down to mine, it never occurred to me that a male secretary (if there ever was such a creature) would have been on twice my income for doing the same job.  Equal Opportunities?  There were women in politics, owning their own businesses, a number of women judges, heaps of women doctors, and of course our country was headed by a female monarch.  Again in my naivety I failed to understand the hard grinding slog it took to achieve these positions, facing gender prejudice every step of the way.  (The only exception of course being the Queen, she was born into her position but only because she didn’t have any brothers!)  The only thing I got about the issue was the word Rights, I figured I must have some, and if there was a call to protest for them then it was obvious I wasn’t getting them, whatever they may be.  So I metaphorically signed on the dotted line and joined the throng.

Throng is the ideal word for what I came up against when I stepped off the train in London, (we were living in Chessington, Surrey at the time, so quite a short journey.)  To this day I would be unable to tell you what streets and squares we passed along, there were so many people, mainly female, all carrying home-made banners and wearing no bras, the symbol of our Right to Freedom.  (We’d had our instructions a couple of days before on dress-code, jeans, comfy shoes, loose-fitting top and no bra, we had to bring that particular item of clothing with us to ceremoniously burn.  I stuffed my in my handbag, not my best bra I hasten to add, one that had seen better days with the underwiring threatening to make a vicious escape, you know what I mean ladies.) 

One often hears the expression ‘being swept along’ but believe me it’s so.  We were so tightly packed together that there was no option but to go with the flow.  The noise was unbelievable, some shouting their slogans in unison, some going for their own vocal take on the matter, (one women beside me  was screaming something about men facing up to their responsibilities in having kids, I would have loved to ask her if she meant taking over the nest duties from time to time or literally having a go at giving birth!)  There was no room for breath or chit-chat.  Added to the hub-bub was the hue and cry of the anti-whatever-it-is-you-are-protesting-about-now brigade.  This gang of loud mouths fall into their own laws of physics, proving once and for all that for all matter there is an anti-matter.  They were mainly male and very angry.  They hurled abusive comments about our sexuality (wanting women’s rights seems, for them at least, automatically ordain you into lesbianism) then they further confused thee issue by screaming for us to get back where we belonged, in the kitchen and our husbands beds!  The abusive comments were soon being punctuated by the occasional missile and fist.  It was beginning to get a bit rowdy for my taste, but there was no escape.  By this time the march had come to a standstill, no going forward because of the ever-increasing violent antis, and no turning back due to the press of marchers behind, and that’s when the police stepped in.

It was sometime during the ensuing melee that I managed to get myself arrested.  Not, as one would suppose, due to the passion of the cause, nor in a vain-glorious attempt to escape, but because of the scoundrel of a policeman who came up behind me.  One has to bear in mind that in those days besides standing all of 5’4″ tall I was as skinny as a rake with hips more usually seen on a boy, so what on earth induced the policeman to grope my backside I will never know.  My reaction was electric, with full realisation that this was one of the things we were protesting about, I spun around and hit him full pelt over the head with my banner.  Thankfully the policeman was wearing his helmet so the only real damage was to my dignity and my banner; it was left with a nasty split along the wooden handle, but more of that later.

The ride to the police station in the Black Maria to be formally charged was a noisy affair with fellow arrestees yelling out of every available barred window.  Me, I sat very still feeling both sick and scared, assaulting a police officer with an offensive weapon is a crime which carries a custodial sentence.  On arrival at our destination we were herded into the police station, our names, addresses and ‘phone numbers were taken before we were split in to groups and placed in various interview rooms.  After what felt an age of being watched over by a seemingly mute woman police officer, the duty sergeant returned and told us we were free to go.  Apparently there were a lot more violent protesters and anti-protesters to see to, and we were considered ‘small fry’ and not worth wasting valuable police time over.  We rose and made our way to the door.  Then can you imagine my horror when, along with a couple of other women, my name was called to return and sit back down.  What was this?  Had the randy policeman decided to press charges anyway?  I was sure it wasn’t that big a wallop.  I needn’t have worried, they had telephoned my husband and he was on his way to collect me in the car.  There were a few mumblings at this from some of the others about ’being escorted home like naughty schoolgirls,’ but I didn’t care, I was looking forward to being safe and sound with my hubby.

Well of course I was safe and sound, but I can’t say my old man was too impressed when he eventually arrived.  For a start, as I wasn’t at home when he had got in from work he had missed his tea and was starving hungry, the car had broken down in Kingston and he had to call a friend, who was in the middle of having his tea, to come and give him a lift to come and fetch me.  I switched off halfway through my husbands complaining so I didn’t at first see the friend he was speaking of.  When I did, my first thought was to confess the hideousness of my crime to the police in the hopes of being rearrested.  The friend my husband had cajoled into saving me was none other than my boss!  So there I stood between my rescuers, on the one side being berated about a missed tea and an empty tummy, and on the other harangued about how important the next mornings board meeting was and would I be wide awake enough to take the minutes.  I felt like holding my own private protest march right there in the police station.  I didn’t, I stoically held my tongue and thought of the hot, deep bath followed by a cup of much-needed tea I would have when I got home.

I never felt truly guilty about the bashing the bum-grabbing policeman, due in part the poetic justice metered out to me on the way home, my faithful and mortally wounded banner gave up its valiant effort to remain in one piece and, with an ominous crack, broke completely in half landing me a painful clunk on the top of my head, plus I had missed the excitement of getting to burn my bra!!! 

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I cannot leave this account of my pitiful first foray into the protesting for Women’s Rights’ (I have never been a ‘quitter’ I did go on others) without making the next statement.  In the 1970s our view of the world was much smaller than it is now, the internet as we know it hadn’t been invented, nor had mobile phones, computers were enormous monsters that dwell in the bowels of a company’s premises.  Nowadays we can look around at the world we live in and see with a trouble eye the struggles of women in other far off countries.  Their situation is by far worse than ours ever was, and some of their issues are far more serious.  The right to an education.  The freedom to choose their own marriage partner and at an age where they are both physically and emotional capable of coping with all the responsibilities that marriage brings.  The right to decent medical care, especially in pregnancy and childbirth.  The right to contraception, should they so chose.  These are fundamental rights that no woman should be denied.  These are the Women’s Rights that must always be Remembered. 

  

 

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Summer BBQ Blues

BBQs.  I don’t like them.  It’s not just that here in the UK having a BBQ is taking a major gamble weather-wise.  All that effort and preparation, which includes beautifying the garden, and everyone still ends up eating at the dining room table morosely watching the rain hammering against the window.

 

It’s the unwanted guest too that can make a misery out of the whole occasion, no matter how carefully one covers the food there will still be some hapless six-legged beastie struggling for its life in the potato salad!  What do you do?  Hook it out in front of all your invited guests or pray that Great Auntie doesn’t consume it.  It would probably be the only thing on the menu she doesn’t complain about if she did.

 

I personally never go near the BBQ cooking paraphernalia, for me that’s mens business.  Usually a male relative in the form of a brother takes that particular duty on for me.  Even this can be fraught with danger.  I well remember having one of those fancy gas BBQ cookers, I left it and the food in the sole charge of my youngest brother with the hope that some sort of edible miracle would result.  He was doing really well aided in his worthwhile endeavors by cans of ice-cold Guinness, a few too many cans of ice-cold Guinness soon leading to the necessity to turn off the wretched contraption whilst he went for a comfort break, returning he switched the gas supply back on and was joined by a cousin who he hadn’t seen in a while.  Chatting is something our family excel in, so there he stood jabbering over old times, emphasising his words with an occasional wave of the igniter wand,  He eventually remembered the job in hand and applied the wand to the BBQ……….  Fortunately the explosion went upward and so no harm to brother or cousin was done, though the same can’t be said for the roof of the lean-to where the kids bikes were usually kept, quite a sizeable hole was blown in it, the edges festooned in charred sausages and burgers.  Composed and debonair as ever he simply said, “Chrissy, there appears to be something wrong with the BBQ, I’ll go inside and use the grill.”

 

Then it’s time for us all to line up for the obligatory Polaroid photo’.  Great Auntie wants an instant pic to take home with her, informing us that, at her age, by the time we could be bothered to send her a picture she could very well be ‘stone cold dead.’  (Great Aunties temperament is undoubtedly more suited to family funerals  than family BBQs, she certainly seems more at ease at a funeral.)  So, we each grab an over-excited, hyper-active child, shoo the dog away…………..NO! Don’t shoo the dog away, he’s the only member of the family Auntie shows any true affection for, look round for the baby who’s at the crawling stage and can do so with the speed of a sprinting cheetah, wipe noses and faces, line up and………..”Say Cheese!”  All going well we can do it in three shots, if not, we end up having a photo’ of the adults all but sitting on the children to keep them still, the dog taking his own comfort break in the flower bed, and the baby’s backside rapidly crawling off into the distance!

 

Then it starts to rain, and the whole gang ends up sitting round the dining room table morosely watching the rain hammering against the window.  BBQs – I don’t like them.

TO A SOLDIER FROM HIS SWEETHEART

 

 

The following was written by my daughter to her sweetheart who was away serving his country in the British Army.  Just three lines, but they say more than a book of love poems ever could.

 

If love finds a way, it will bring you home to me,

If fate sets you free, it will make you fly with me,

If happiness is the key, open th door to me.

                                                                    Karen E. Brown

OH! THE PRETTY FLOWERS

I am not a poet, however, like most writers I’m willing to give it a go!  The following is fun, no more, no less, but true!!  Enjoy reading it, I certainly enjoyed writing it.

 

 

 

Now, I’m no gardener, let’s make that clear,

You’ll find no Latin names and handy hints here.

Flowers is flowers, I go by their hue,

When buying I ask for either red, white, or blue.

When planting I take the utmost of care,

After all I paid good money not to leave the beds bare.

I plant them in rows, I plant them in clumps,

I give them water and manure in great lumps.

 

                    HOWEVER

 

No matter how much love on them I bestow,

Ungrateful little buggers refuse to grow,

Their immature buds never come into bloom,

Their withering leaves fill me with gloom.

What can be wrong?  What more can I do?,

A book from the library might give me a clue.

So, taking advice, I spray them for bugs,

I stop just short of giving them kisses and hugs.

 

                    AND THEN

 

One day from my kitchen window I saw,

The answer to all my problems and more.

No wonder my plants didn’t do so well,

No wonder the poor things were going thro’ hell.

My little dog Coco sniffing round the beds,

Did cock up his leg and peed on their heads.

I’m off down the Centre some thorny roses to buy,

Let’s see you cock your leg up on them little guy!

 

                    SUCCESS

 

 

A DUTIFUL SECRETARY !

I was recently asked what my most embarrassing moments were, and I found myself giving the stock reply, “How long have you got?”  On reflection I decided that there is one that sticks in my mind, so, sparing not my blushes, here we go.

Many moons ago I worked as a secretary in the Cosmetics Industry, and as any office worker can testify we are often subjected by the ‘powers that be’ to having our offices refurbished.  A hateful process, causing disruption, lost files, mess and bad tempers.  However, when all was done and dusted it was actually quite pleasant, certainly brighter and roomier than our dark cubby-holes.  My office was modern and welcoming with everything to hand.  My boss’s was at last large enough to take meetings of more than three at a time, with me squeezed in a corner taking minutes, luxury.  I did, however, notice that my boss had installed a set of glass shelves, and when I pointed out that, although they were very nice, were they practical?  He went on to inform me that they were for the collection of house-plants he hoped to acquire.  I had worked for him long enough to know that meant I would have to ’acquire’ them, feed them, water them and pacify the cleaners who would, without doubt, moan about them.

I don’t have green fingers, as fast as I placed them on the shelves they upped and died.  I tried my best to convince my boss that small pieces of art work would look lovely instead of the pathetic disasters currently displayed, but no, he would have none of it, it had to be plants.  This led to a few cross words between us, with him yelling, “Just who is the boss here?”  I think I mumbled something like “The bloody plants are!” as I departed for my own non-botanical haven.

A week or two passed, the situation pretty much remained the same, though I was having moderate success with cacti, however the sore-fingered and long-suffering cleaners were none too impressed!  I, quite frankly, had lost what little interest I ever had in the wretched things.  A familiar pattern was emerging, and this time seemed no different to any other when my boss put his head round my door and said, “Oh, Wendy has a new cutting for me, try not to murder this one,” Wendy had often supplied cuttings in the past, so when I next passed by her office I popped in to pick my next ‘victim’ up.  Wendy wasn’t there, but her boss, on seeing me, said, “Chrissy, Wendy said you might be by to pick his ‘lordships’ new weed up, Wendy said to tell you to try not to swear at it, apparently plants are sensitive to that sort of thing!”  I gave a brief smile to acknowledge his weak attempt at a joke, took my new charge, and left.

Another few weeks passed.  This time it looked as though I had blossomed into a horticultural genius, the beastly cutting survived!!  To repay it for making at least some kind of an effort I lavished extra care on it, true, it was the only plant on the shelving by now, (cacti apparently do not take to a lot of watering.)  My boss found my administrations to his new plant amusing, and would often watch me water it and even give it weekly bio feeds with a certain amount of smugness.  It never seemed to grow though, but I thought ”Hey! some plants are slow in that area,” but its leaves were always shiny.  I eventually got round to asking the cleaners about that as I never touched its leaves, no way was I going to push my luck that far.  “Oh yes my dear,” Ethel the head honcho cleaner told me, “We dips it in hot soapy water and swills it about regular, comes up a treat, so there really is no need for you to pour water on it.”

My brain cells collided with a sickening thud.  No wonder my boss looked so self-satisfied and smug.  Very funny joke, I don’t think.  Why hadn’t I noticed sooner.  However, nothing felt so sweet as when in the summer the bright sunshine flooding into his new office faded its fake, cheap plastic leaves to a nasty jaundiced yellow.