Vote Hope Not Hate

 

Saturday was the Love Music Hate Racism Festival at the home of the Mighty Potters, the Britannia Stadium. 

We (Unison) had a stall there amongst the other Trade Unions, Pressure Groups, and sellers of colourful things. It was a scorching hot day coupled with a blustery wind left me regretting my choice of summer dress for two reasons. Firstly a couple of Monroe style incidents of billowing skirt. Love Music hate Flashing. An secondly my telltale sunburned shoulders and décolletage (always wanted to use that word). The mainstay of activity on our stall seemed to be the supply of Helium filled balloons. I wondered why all these supposed cool teens were so into balloons, but it turned out that they were actually into inhaling the Helium. Made me feel just a bit like a drug pusher. By the end of my stint on the stall I was highly proficient in the balloon inflating department developing a two handed technique that could surely see me through in next years Britain's Got Talent, failing that a sideline as a children's party clown, Jolly Jenny and her Amazing Balloons…or something

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We didn’t get to see the show, but certainly heard it. If the cheering crowd was anything to go by it was a roaring and whooping success. The one person I would have bitten off a small finger to see was the TransFather Himself  and all round comedy god Eddie Izzard, who was doing a spot of comparing. I love Eddie from the first time I saw him on the Royal Variety Show, with a routine that involved monkeys, trees and French. I can still remember the day when I heard he had announced that he was a transvestite. Somebody famous that I liked, was like me (I identified as a transvestite back in those days). He will never know it, but he had a profound effect on me at a time when I was struggling for self acceptance.

 

Anyway enough of the Fluff. There is only one real reason why  this important event was in Stoke for the first time and that is the insidious presence of those cloaked fascists the BNP (British National Party).

They currently hold 9 seats on our council, more than the Tories and its not beyond credibility that they could take control of the local authority in the medium future. I have a BNP councillor, and lets get this straight they are not only racist but homophobic and haters of anyone of difference. I love my idiosyncratic city, but I can only feel ashamed of the current state of its local politics. If these nasty hate filled bile mongers ever do get control it will not just be a stain on my city but it will give them a power base to spread their infection throughout the country. If you don't believe that, then just look at France and the rise of Le Pen, who eventually stood for president. Europe’s history is peppered with examples of what happens when these racists gain a the veil of credibility and as the quote sort of goes, “Evil prospers when good people do nothing”

So at the risk of being preachy (understatement alert!) I come to my main point and that is the upcoming European Elections on June 4th. Hands up who is not intending to vote (gotcha, you voted now!). Turnout for the Euros is poor enough at the best of times, but right now after all the expenses kerfuffle the major political parties reputation ranks below even that of Bankers, Spammer’s and Loan Sharks  but maybe. However, this must not stop us from voting. Everyone, but everyone needs to vote for someone or something, just as long as its not for the BNP (or maybe UKIP too. If the BNP are bad the UKIP are their mad cousins). Of course as a lefty Trade Unionist I hope that people vote for progressive parties, but even if you are misguided enough to be a Tory, just damn well make sure you vote. Every vote not cast is sucker to the racists. They only need to few percentage points more to get a couple of seats in the West Midlands or a seat in the North West or Eastern region. For every seat they gain, will mean a chunk load of money from the European Parliament. Now we know they are not interested in Europe at all. Nationalists as Internationalists just doesn’t work. The money however does. They may well use this to fund paid organisers in cities like Stoke. Indeed, I understand that if Nick (Holocaust Denier) Griffin gets elected in the North West then he intends to buy a house in Stoke on Trent. What is happening in Stoke could be coming to a council ward near you.

If you have never had to fight the BNP locally, then you do now. Everyone gets to vote in these Euros and every single vote matters. These elections are important, they do matter.

Anyone says they “Don’t do Politics” is wrong. Life is Politics. An uncast vote in the Euro elections is doing politics, a politics that sees the fascists prosper.

Vote Hope not Hate… Vote on June 4th

http://unison.org.uk/stopthebnp/doing.asp

Preaching over…normal service will resume with more tales of my misadventures (mainly falling over)

The Full Essex

I was down (or up, never sure which) in Southend again this bank holiday, visiting Lucy.

This time it was an altogether more planed affair than last time, without the need for any emergency blood transfusions (though i did draw blood in one overenthusiastic plucking session !).

The main reason for coming.. no the second main reason was that it was the weekend of the Southend on Sea Air Show, the first obviously was to see Luce again. Lucy looked so much better than last I was with her, which I accept is not difficult as she was lying in a hospital bed at the time. Since then, she was discharged and has had some tests the results of which are that her acute anaemia may be caused by…well that's up to Lucy to tell you . Anyway Lucy is really positive, not just because she is feeling a whole lot better, but at least now something is being done to fix her. Whatever fight she has coming I know she will face it with the same courage that has been writ throughout her life.

The excitement for the weekend didn't end with the air show, because on the Saturday night Lucy's sister was coming down to see her. Not a big deal in the scheme of things, 2 sisters going out for the night, but Lucy had not seen Jeanette for over 3 years. Its seems like my life is becoming an extended episode of the little missed show, Surprise Surprise. Now I’m no Cilla, although I can belt out a mean, but frankly disturbing rendition of “What’s its all about Malfoy”. Here I am with another reunion hot on the heels of the last one. What’s next week? I meet the midwife who delivered me !    

But back to the point. I can’t really know why Lucy and Jeanette have kept apart do long. What I do know that they had a tough upbringing, and that unresolved slights in the past can become so magnified and distorted through the lens of time that they become unrecognisable from that they once  were. I’m not saying this is exactly case for them, all I know is that the older I get the more important family are to me, I guess you start to realise that someday there will be no tomorrow to get back in touch.

That Saturday night after hugs and wine we set off for a night out on the town. This was going to be an authentic Essex gal night out, so I had to go for my sexiest and most unbearable heels. I will try not going to make any disparaging or snooty comments about Essex, after all I like in Stoke, The Basildon of the North!! In 3 trips down I have developed a fondness for Southend on Sea. If America and Britain are 2 nations divided by a common language, the Essex and Staffs are 2 counties united in their lack of pretension. It was a fun night and worth the agony of heel induced lameness. All said, it was heart warming to be just a small part of L&Gs reconciliation, and I feel I’ve made a good new friend in Jeanette.

So on to Sunday and the Southend Air show. A brisk (plodding) walk down to the seafront then a rugby scrum along the promenade to find a good spot for Plane Spotting.

“Choose Life, Choose Essex, Choose sisters for ever, , Choose Saaffend,  Choose squeezing through the crowd to find a tiny rocky spot to sit on,  Choose waddling home with a very sore bum.

The show was utterly brilliant. I’ve seen air displays before, mainly at a Grand Prix race at Silverstone or Brands, but they had nothing on this. The hot hot early summer weather, a huge joyful throng, the shimmering sea and a stunning display of flying bravura, combined to make this a day of days.

We had 2 Apache helicopters facing off against each other, wing walkers defying gravity and common sense, The Red Arrows synchronised swooping, The RedBull Air Race chaps touching wingtips and the majestic Battle of Britain Memorial Flight

“Never… in the field of human sunbathing… have so many gawped so much…. at so few”

We rounded the day off by buying a bags load of pseudo perfume from a lorry trailer market trader. Apparently I had bought £300 of scent for 20 quid. I’m sure its quality stuff that I can at least use on Gammo’s litter tray. What with the heels and deals, I was really getting the total Essex experience.

It was sad to see Jeanette have to return to her big smoke, but that sadness was dwarfed by the joy of their renewed sisterhood. My mind turned to my bond with my brother, stronger than ever despite that most of the time he is in some far flung spot or near flung pub.

2 weeks, 2 reunions and maybe 1 lesson: Always keep talking. However long has passed 22 years, 3 years or a few days ?  Its never to late or too soon. Just keep talking

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Ashes to Lashes

I am writing this on an evening train back home from London after one of the most intense but ultimately wonderfully strange days of my strange transitioned life.

The story starts in the depths of the early eighties. Two lads in their early teens, a year apart, bond over Sir Clive Sinclair’s computers. More over, the older one, who we shall call G was impressed with the one we now know as A’s, Spectrum compared to his G’s ZX81.

G and A grew up together through that foreign land of, Thatcher, Royal Weddings, Miner’s Strike’s and death at football grounds. They shared a geeky passion for Dungeons & Dragons, painstakingly painting their lead (and probably toxic) figures of orcs, goblins and dragons with unnecessary detail. They sat in bedrooms listening to long deleted music, on flimsy plastic Amstrad Hi-Fis and clunky mono cassette recorders. Albums of obscure electro eighties pop and angry Thatcher hating bands of the Red Wedge generation (Faith Brothers in particular, were our favourite). That same cassette player would double as a Spectrum software  driver, as long as you could get the volume slider set just, just, just right.

G and A would spend hot summer days improvising cricket against the

garage door, and sweaty nights bouncing along at their first pop concerts.

Tears for Fears at the Vicky Hall in Hanley, with faltering sound equipment, having to repeat their biggest hit, Shout; An Ultravox-less Midge Ure singing “Feed The World” to a swaying crowd at the Manchester Apollo; Sting and band of Jazz musicians, covering more obscure The Police covers on his Bring On The Night Tour; Chris de Burgh in the “Cow Shed” of Stafford County Showground, dedicating a song to local train crash victims, before launching into Patricia The Stripper.

Then they turned 18 and trotted off to Universities (well G’s was actually a Poly) at opposite ends of the country, and that was that. They lost touch completely. The ashes of the friendship just strong memories and the odd gatefold sleeve album.

Fast forward 22 years. G is now J and living that life you read about on this blog. (yeah I know you  figured that already, but you know me, style over substance every time)

Losing touch with A was my biggest regret by far in a litany of lost friendships. In fact I blogged about it over a year ago, but after a brief unsuccessful foray trying to track him down I pretty much gave up hope of seeing him again.

Then, a month or so ago, I was travelling back at night from the G20 march when I checked the hotmail on my Blackberry, when amongst a list of emails that appeared to be spam I spied a name that tugged at me. I opened that email and was shaken out of my Motorway induced stupor.

As I sat on the dark snooze filled coach reading the email for my best friend of those far off days I could not hold off the emotion. My eyes filled with tears and my body quivered quietly. I thought that no one had noticed, but Vicky sitting opposite touched my arm and whispered, “Whats up”. “Read this” I said, and showed her A’s email. I couldn’t really explain to her the effect it had on me. 2 decades had gone with the click of that icon.

Well today (the today when I’m writing this) we met up again, and it was brilliant. We talked for over 3 hours,

before I had to get this train back up north. You know, even after more than half our lives we were essentially those same two friends from so long ago. I guess I may have changed a bit more physically what with the gender and all that, but neither of us were that different than we remembered. We slipped into conversation so easily, without a hint of awkwardness. That has to show how strong a bond we had. Apart from trying to précis the last 20 years, we mostly just talked about the same stuff we talked about all those years ago.

I had one of the best days I can remember in a long time (maybe 22 years). Sitting on this train home the rhythm of the track being echoed by the tapping of a dozen laptops, I cant help but look back on my life. For all that had happened in 2 decades I’m not sure I’m all that different from that geeky, insecure teenager. Back then I had no real idea where I was going, and even now I tend to live in the moment and struggle to make any plans more than a couple of weeks hence. The world is a significantly different planet in 2009 than it was in 1987. I am still the same alien creature I always was. 

Thank you A. A better friend than I deserved, then and now.

Video Killed the Trade Union Spart

Thursday I took part in my first ever video conference.

The meeting was Unisons Trans Caucus, which in a nutshell is the core of Transgendered Unsion activists opportunity to tackle those equality matters, that matter the most to us.

I did my bit from the basement of Unison’s Birmingham offices. When I say Basement, it is a well appointed meeting room, but it still had that characteristic muffled ambience and lack of natural light.

The meeting was to discuss the upcoming Parliamentary Equality Bill  in relation to Transgendered discrimination. I was a bit early so I sat and placed with the video camera, to try and get my best look on screen. After a bit I decided I looked best if I just sat underneath the table, but I guess hiding from view somewhat negates the point of a video conference. I then decided I ought to familiarise myself with the matter at hand, as typically I had failed to read the Bill in depth. All too soon the screen flashed up an incoming call. Guess I would just have to wing it, for a change! It took a little time to get used to this method on holding a meeting. The inevitable short delays meant it was important to try not to talk over each other, else we all just ended up saying sorry and excuse me to each other repeatedly.

Being serious for a moment (at last !) The new Bill is an improvement but it typically does not go far enough.

There is not any improvement for the protection of children in schools from bullying and harassment related to gender identity, either their own or a relative.

There are also some worrying exceptions contained in the guidance around provision of services. Such as it may be reasonable to exclude a trans woman from a communal changing room in a shop if certain considerations are made by the proprietor. This is irrespective as to whether the woman has completed transition and has undergone GRS (Gender reassignment Surgery). Now there is nothing that would horrify me more than using a communal room to try clothes on, but as a woman I want that right. Any exceptions in legislation that set me apart from other women, lessen me by a degree each time, so unreasonable exceptions such of this are damaging. I see no need for this sort of exception and think it could be the slippery slope, thin end wedge type thing.

Anyway we had an excellent debate and found a sensible focus for our future campaigning.

Sheffield Sisters

This last week, aside from my getting lost in what’s been called the “vibrant, pulsating hub of the North West” (I Manborde, 2009), Manchester, I went trekking the length and breadth of the country (well up and down the M1 at least), to see good friends, Joanne and Lucy.

Sunday last but I headed North to Sheffield and the Meadowhall shopping centre.

I had arranged to spend a morning shopping and chatting with Jo. We planned to meet on Meadowhall’s car park at 10am, which was a bit daft, as the shops didn’t open till 11. I judged my eta very badly and got there at 9.30am. It’s a bit disconcerting sitting in the only car on such a huge carpark in the bright sunlight. It was like a scene from some distopian sci-fi zombie flick, think Dawn of the Dead crossed with The Full Monty (well It was Sheffield). I was eventually joined by 2 other cars, though this didn’t settle my unease as the cars screeched to a halt side by side, facing opposites, and the occupants got out only to exchange packages, before they screeched away again. I suppose they could have been handing over an Avon delivery, but for what I could see under their Burberry caps the two young men were pretty well moisturised already. Anyway, the speed of the transaction left me thinking that the customer was satisfied.

Eventually the car park filled and even more eventually Jo arrived. As before Jo looked annoyingly pretty, and slimmer than any friend needs to be, still it would be unfair of me to ask her to bulk up just for a shopping expedition with me. As we sat over coffee we shared tales from the road. I tried to impart some of my wisdom borne of 4 year post transition, but it soon became apparent that there was nothing I could teach Jo and the nearest thing I would come to Wisdom was when if I changed my toothpaste brand. As shopping trips go, we fared pretty badly, as our constant wittering got in the way of actually buying anything, that was until we were pounced upon by a lady from a stall selling Dead Sea beauty stuff.

Pretty soon we were rubbing some salt scrub into our hands and marvelling at the smell of some soapy stuff. The sales lady was charming, insistent and persistent. At one stage she asked our names. “I’m Jenny and this is Joanne”. “Are you sisters she enquired. This was clearly wrong whichever way you looked at it.

1) Did she not suspect that either of us was Trans and therefore both original born women? Flattering but unlikely, as she had both looked a

t me and heard me speak, and anyway even if this was the case we could still not have looked less like sisters.

2) She sussed that we were trans, and thought we were brothers that had become sisters. Possible but highly improbable

3) She sussed me and thought that Jo was my sister and I had decided to join her in sorority. Not flattering for me I guess, but possible.

4) She was just high on smelling patchouli oil flavoured soap, day after day.

5) She was just an overzealous soft soaping soap seller

Whatever the reason it worked on me and I left clutching a bag of way too expensive soapy/salty stuff that would transform me into a soft skinned temptress. The price to pay for this pleasure was the abandonment of my principles. I realised that I am supposed to be boycotting goods from Israel (see post passim), but doh! where in the world did I think the Dead Sea was. Jo just looked at me with bemused wonder.

It felt all too soon to be heading back to Stoke but time and Sunday lunch wait for no woman. As I drove back down the M1 my ebullience at an enjoyable morning turned to melancholy. The empty house that I was returning to felt just a bit more empty. Its funny the more time I spend with any of my fabulous bunch of friends the more lonely I feel. I guess the highs of good company exaggerate the lows of solitude. I despise regret, its a waste of time, effort and brain ache, but I do sometimes think that although when we transition it is absolutely the right thing to do, the sacrifice of future family is a high tax indeed. Anyway I had pulled myself together by Derby, just in time buy a pair of great shoes. Hey, I may be a moody cow, but I was a moody cow in 3 inch black patent killer heels.

Lost in La Manchester

With apologies to Terry Gilliam

Wednesday early evening, found me adrift on the mean streets of Manchester after representing one of our members. I hadn’t been to Manchester for over a year, and having 3 hours to kill before I was due at our quiz I decided to go on an impromptu shopping hunt. My quarry was the almost mythical Arndale shopping centre, and instead of “tilting at windmills” I wanted to tilt at the perfect fitting summer dress.

I wasn’t exactly sure where I was in Manchester, and I wasn’t exactly sure where The Arndale was, but I decided to trust my innate (and mostly misjudged) sense of direction. So off I strode down the narrow, mill lined streets with a confidence and hope. This turned to bewilderness and panic as the landscape turned from the quiet grandeur of Victorian industrial architecture to shabby sleazy “private” shops and litter strewn booze vendors. Between every other surviving business, was a boarded up, fly-postered relic, complete with huddled homeless person wedged in the doorway. I had lost faith that I would ever find my gleaming shopping dream, and was just about to turn heel and retrace my steps home, when I spied a large, friendly blue P. Where there is a car park surely there would be a shopping centre. And Lo, it came to pass, that I spent a happy hour trying my way through most of the summer dresses that my favourite (ie the only one that stocked my size) shop Evans, stocked. In the end I plumped (such an apt term) for a gorgeous full, tiered, print skirt. Buoyed and emboldened by my purchase, and with a little time still on my hands  I set out to explore a little more before heading back to my car.

Picadilli Gardens bathed in the evening sun was a pleasant diversion. I sprawled amongst my fellow travellers, taking respite on the grass, until my watch reminded me of my impending quiz appointment. So refusing to learn from my countless failures of a sense of direction I set off in the vague direction of my car park on Dale Street. After half an hour or of wandering where each street became less recognisable than the one before I made a firm decision. I was utterly lost. Lacking a Sancho Panza for a companion I scanned around for anyone who looked like they had a working knowledge of Manchester's geography. However the only people I could see appeared drunk, very drunk or were a bouncer at one of the countless clubs. I figured that the bouncer’s knowledge of the streets ended at how much they hurt  when they threw someone to it. The decision as to who to ask, was taken out of my hands by a mildly scruffy and deceptively young man who approached me calling “Could you lend me 75p so I can get to Rochdale, luv”. Well quid pro quo, I thought, or almost a quid anyway. I decided to give him 2 quid in the hope he would return my generosity with some clear directions. I enquired to where Dale st could be, but he just waved wildly in a direction that covered at least 3 points of the compass. Giving up on him as a guide I walked away with an insincere thanks. Not taking the hint he walked alongside me and then confessed that he really wanted the money for a couple of pints and if I gave him just one more pound he would reach his target, adding that I looked lovely by the way. His candour made me laugh and I declined this opportunity to further invest in him with a chuckle and a congratulation for his hustling style.

15 minutes and drunk hustler behind me I was now exactly 15 minutes more lost. I figured that I must have overshot my destination and turned back towards whence I came…ish. As it the light dulled my anxiety sharpened. At one stage I just stood stock still, utterly devoid of ideas and feeling just about as alone as I have ever done. I vainly searched for a hailable Taxi to provide salvation, but everyone I saw was taken with snug smug customers. The city that had been bright and welcoming on the grass of Picadilli Gardens was now just plain menacing. I passed a group of young male twats who shared bonding sniggers of hatred in my direction. Then just as I was about to sit down and make wherever I was my new home, a bell rang, a penny dropped and thingy thingyed (last one needs work). I had my blackberry in my black bag and on my blackberry in my black bag was blackberry maps app. Oh why oh why did I not twig sooner. I found Dale Street on my mobile. It was only a couple of streets away from Picadilli Gardens. I had spent the best part of an hour walking in the wrong direction, but thanks to my inabillity to stick to one path I was not an hour away from the car. My car stood alone on the now empty lot as if to mock my late return, but I cared not. I was just so glad to be back in one piece and back at peace.

Of course I was late getting to the quiz, and to top off a crap night we lost on a tiebreak.

‘arrogate

UNISON Health Conference 2009 in Harrogate. As I mentioned in posts passim, I have found myself at the centre of the big debate of the week on our Pay negotiation mechanisms. Its a bit dull to explain the details of the argument, but let me assure the debate was far from dull. The debate was set for the Tuesday afternoon, and after many strategic huddles during lunch the main players strode into the magnificent Conference arena, as nervous but determined gladiators (well there were at least sandals anyway). Our motion was the second of the two in the debate. We were up against some of the most passionate and experienced speakers, particularly Mike from Scotland who delivered a magnificent open salvo. I was lined up in a long queue to speak against their motion. If theirs was passed, then ours would fall and I would not have to move our motion  (please no jokes about moving motions…its not big and its not clever).
Punch and counter punch followed, each side trying to outdo each other with facts and shouting. As my spot neared, someone from their side jumped in and raised a Point of Order to end the debate and go for the vote. The 2 seas of yellow voting cards held up for and against were too close to call so it went to the card vote. This is when each branch delegation fills in a card (duurrrh!) with their branches voting strength. My branch had 2,500 votes. Everyone gets a little over excited at card votes as the bell is rung and people rush around making sure no card is missed, and every vote is counted. All done, a calm slowly settled and   in, like children coming down after a sugar rush we all sat back for the next speaker.

The card vote count meant that my motion would not be moved till the following day (now, I have told you, stop making your own jokes!). I was disappointed, because that meant another night of tinkering with my speech, and worse I had blown my best frock on nothing.
The next morning was a bit of an anticlimax. We won the card vote relatively easily and my motion was pretty much unchallenged. I was still pretty nervous as I stood before everyone. For a transwoman who for most of her time tries to blend in with the world, having your face broadcast on 2 gigantic projection screen as your voice boomed out on a dozen speakers while 2 thousand eyes bore down on you is a trifle unsettling. I rattled through my speech far too fast and as I sat down to some sympathetic applause, I was a little disappointed with myself. However I would get another chance, when I would speak in the afternoon on a motion that mattered to me more than any other. Motion 58 on Transgender discrimination . . .

I had worked really hard on this speech. I was not moving the motion, but as far as I knew I was the only visible transgender member at the conference. The motion was always going to be passed easily (please!!) but I wanted more than that. I wanted the delegates to engage with the issue. Because we are still so relatively rare, the issue often disappears from delegates minds as soon as the next motion starts. I was so determined to make some sort of impact. The world of work will only truly become a safer place to transition the more we are seen. Although the more I’m seen as trans the more likely I am to be treated differently. It’s a bit of a Catch 22 thingy.

I was not nervous this time as I stood at the podium…..”Chair, conference. Jenny Harvey, west midlands health committee. I am proud to be a trans member. I am proud to have become a woman member of Unison” . . . cheap applause followed and away I went.
I got a couple of jokes in early. Jokes based on NHS pay systems (called Agenda for Change, so work it out) and on Unison rules don't translate on a blog, but they went down well and the laughter got the hall on my side, ready to hit them with the substance of my speech, the struggle for real acceptance at work and the part employers take in making things harder. I made it personal, giving examples of discrimination I had faced. I finished my speech spot on when the red light came on. I was chuffed, it’s really tricky judging your timing as pauses for applause and laughter can throw it off. As I walked back to my seat, the clapping felt genuine. As a sat behind my table, I started shaking and had to hold back tears. It was a combination of relief, pride and emotion. I have never felt like that after public speaking before. I can only surmise that it was because to topic was so personal.
I was glad to get home to Gammo. Now looking ahead to our June National Delegates Conference in Brighton, where Ive got to move a motion attacking the BNP. 

Sarffend

Easter Bank Holiday I travelled down the M1 to visit my internet friend Lucy.

I have chatted to Lucy for well over 18 months, and we met last November at Unisons LGBT conference. We hit it off at conference but we were so busy, we didn’t really get much time. So this weekend would be a test to see if we would really get on after a friendship built through the internet. After all, in real life there is no delete or backspace key, so a transition from virtual to actual is not always a given. Trading semi humorous asides through the ether, is all very, but how well do you really get to know someone, when you have to follow every third comment with “lol” to make sure they know you’re joking (btw I never use these text diminutions!) and happiness is indicated by a colon, hyphen and close brackets. I was excited about spending the weekend with her, but at the same time a touch nervous. I can be annoying after 10 minutes, so 3 days of incessant prattling chirpyness, broken by bouts of whining self pity would be a test for anyone.

My route down read like a greatest hits of motorway congestion, so I allowed myself plenty of time. M6 past Birmingham > M1 southbound > M25 Clockwise (or anti, not quite sure). I would pass those exotic sounding service stations, Hilton Park, Newport Pagnall, Toddington and South Mimms. A suprisingly jam free journey was only spoiled by some horrid billboards visible from the M25 proclaiming “Britain is a Christian Country”. Apparently this is the Christian Party’s response to the BNPs use of Jesus on a poster. The misguided and the maladjusted arguing over who an imaginary friend loves best (bald men and comb etc). I can’t help thinking that Britain would be a much more christian country, if it wasn’t for all the Christians!

I arrived in Southend at 5ish, after a brief stop at another huge Tesco to buy some wine for my hostess. Not being a heavy drinker (a heavy non drinker is more apt), I have no idea about wine. It all tastes like vinegar to me. So how to select a good bottle. I didn’t know Red or White so I chose Rose and my second criteria was which bottle had the most money knocked off. I ended up with a £4.99 (down from £7.99) New Zealand Rose made from some grapes. See, I’m almost an expert. As a rule I don’t usually drink alcohol. Not for any good reason other than I just don’t like the taste that much. As this was a special occasion I thought I ought not to be a pooper, so I went crazy and bought myself 2 Baccardi Breezers. With my tolerance for alcohol as low as a limbo dancer who has been steamrollered, who knows what could happen with an alcopop crazed Stokie in the house (err nothing much really it turned out)

Not owning a SatNav I was relying on half remembered Googlemap directions. As a navigation method this was completely successful right up to the point I got lost. I eventually found my destination through a mix of educated guessing, dumb luck and an eventually phone call to Lucy.

Lucy has a lovely immaculate flat,  and i could almost hear it’s fabric groan as I entered. Hugs over, and my clutter transferred from car to front room, we settled in for a night of pizza and parlez. Well, I thought I could talk, but Lucy is certainly a match for me. She is also as much of a geek as me  so much of the talk revolved around a shared love of Sci Fi TV series and a mutual excitement at the upcoming Star Trek revival. Shaun as Scotty and Sylar as Spock, genius! We talked and talked till our heads were flopping. Talking to Lucy felt so easy and we traded tales from from the road, until our heads were dropping. I became very apparent that there were two guests in the house, and that the real owner was Smudge the cat. Smudge is a verging on the spherical mass of cuteness. With an air of superiority he paced around the house, occasionally pausing by either of the guests to demand some attention, which of course he got every time. He was so confident and gentle, in stark contrast to my Gammo’s, nervous mewing and constant arm shagging

After a wine and Breezer reinforced sleep, Saturday was to be our trip to the big city (No not Stoke!). Train and a Saturday disrupted tube eventually put us in a drizzly Camden Market. I haven’t been there for 10 years and I’d forgotten what a bustling, vibrant, wonderfully mad place it is. While the rest of London was unusually subdued under this drabbest of April skies, Camden shrugged it off and was a bustling cacophany on noise and colour (although with the highest Goth quotient in Europe it was mainly black). Lucy was like a guided missile swooping on some absolutely fabulous outfits, to match her fabulous figure. Every item lifted off the rack was met with a haggling charmer, ready to knock off a fiver for a quick sale . As for me, I enjoyed a day free of clothes shopping stress. No beating myself up over the cost of an impulse buy. No two-ing and fro-ing over which item ill fitted me least. The liberation from being half a dozen sizes bigger than any of the clothes on sale, let me enjoy people watching to its fullest.

We managed to get back to Southend just in time for the Time Lord, despite the best attempts of London Transport to thwart us at every juncture. Highlight of the night’s telly had to be the stunning rendition of “I dreamed a dream” from Les Miz, by the middle aged Scottish lady, Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent who immediately silenced the 4,000 cynics that made up the baying audience, from the moment the first note left her lips.

Sundays weather was a distinct improvement on Saturdays feeble effort. Time to find the sea, after all in Stoke I live just about as far from the seaside as its possible to find. After a tour of Southend’s one way streets, cul de sacs and carparks, we found ourselves at the eastern end of the long seafront. The sea would still have to wait  for a moment longer, as we had hunger to abate, and being on diet holiday, I was able to snaffle away a rather fine sausage and mash. I was so relaxing to sit on the sea wall with Lucy, just letting troubles ebb away with the tide. Lucy is such great company, and to have someone with whom I share such a common life history is both a comfort and joy. I of course cannot rely on memories alone so out came my camera. I really wanted a snap of the two of us, so I set my camera on self timer and sat it on the sea wall. After directing Lucy to her mark on the beach, the plan was to squat to focus the camera on Lucy before I had 10 seconds to vault the sea wall, sprint to Lucy’s side, compose, pose and then smile. The plan worked really well. My vault had the grace of a lame Hippo and I landed on the sand with a “thickening sud”. My sprint turned out to be a 10 yard stumble arms a flailing, and by the time I reached Luce I was nearly on my knees. I grabbed her to my side and almost collapsed laughing, certain that I had missed the snap moment. A kindly lady passing by witnessed my pantomime and with a huge smile offered to take a photo for us. When I checked the pictures afterwards my chaotic first attempt had turned the best and for once in a photo I am actually smiling. In fact we both are and I have to say its one of my favourite pictures ever, and a fitting reminder of a weekend to treasure.

It was soon time to head back north to civilisation and as the  nighttimes' motorway drive morphed into a steady blurring stream of oncoming headlights and cats eyes, I kept my mind alert by thoughts of the next visit to my Southend Friend.

A friendship that was now cemented as strong as that blasted seawall.

 

         

Sea Gazing

Adendum…Lucy has just succumbed to the way of the blog http://lululastresort.blogspot.com check it out

Under Pressure . . . bum bum bum bum, bumbum, bum bum

As Queen and David so eloquently put it “Pressure pushing down on me Pressing down on you no man ask for”.

I've found myself at the centre of things for Unison’s upcoming Health Conference, the biggest (and best) conference of health and NHS workers in the country. This year it will be held at the very genteel and Yorkshire (and hilly) town of Harrogate. Its a huge conference centre for a relatively small town and when we invade every 3rd person has a telltale
Without going into too much mind numbingly dull NHS pay and conditions twaddle what will happen is that I will be moving a motion in the most contentious debate regarding our participation in a Pay Review (PRB). The PRB hears evidence from both the Trades Unions and the NHS trusts to recommend an annual pay increase rather than us directly negotiating with the employers, which effectively turns out to be the government. It is vital that in this economic and political climate that we have a buffer between ourselves and the government so that future increases are judged on an economic and fair basis, rather than political expediency. I’m am sure that whichever shade of government comes next, are going attempt to use public sector pay restraint to score cheap points with those percieved oracles of middle England The Daily Malicious and The Daily Exploits. Our Pay Review Body gives us extra ammunition in any upcoming pay battles that would be folly to decommission. We know that the Treasury would be delighted if Unison withdrew from the process, and for me if the treasury is against it then I’m for it.
Anyway enough of the Trade Unionising already.

The upshot (is there ever a downshot ?) is that I am feeling a little (make that a lot) under pressure to deliver an effective 5 minute speech, because I’m sure to be followed by some experienced passionate speakers from the other side of the debate. My only previous speech at health conference was on violence and aggression in the NHS and lets face it I would have had to be pretty cack footed to miss that as an open goal. I did think about starting off by saying that Violence and Aggression was a good thing, especially towards patients and that we should routinely arm our nurses, just to see if anyone was listening, but sense got the better of me.
So right now 11 days ahead of the event my head is a whirl of what I hope it snappy soundbites and punchy comment, but more likely incoherent waffle that may find its way into my text.
To try and get some clarity of thought, the other day I found myself in Leek at 4pm, after doing an induction presentation, so instead of crawling through traffic to the office I decided to sit in the sun and get some perspective. Where better than the Roaches, a fabulous rocky hilly outcrop just 10 mins above Leek, on the edge of the Peak district national Park.

Parking the car, below the climb I suddenly realised (my brain is so slow sometimes) that I was maybe not best dressed for a scramble up the rock, sitting as I was in a long black and white print dress and flattie work pumps. If there had been a summer garden party or a wedding do on the hillside then I may have been ok, but scanning the horizon I saw neither. Hell, In for a penny, in for a Euro (The Pound is pretty weak right now). So off I went a-climbing and a-scrambling up to the rock. After much tripping over teetering and some undignified crawling on all fours I got to my targeted spot, and looking like a lioness crossed with a Fresian cow I basked in the sun on my hot rock. At times small groups of proper hikers and climbers

would pass me all tooled up in their hiking boots, fleeces and rucksacks. As they chewed on their Kendal Mint cake they would glance at me with a mix of scorn and bemusement, if they had children with them they would gently guide them away fromthe “strange lady”. To make myself just that bit more conspicuous I decided to take a couple of pictures of myself, and with the aid of a carefully balanced camera, a self timer and a short dash to position I succeeded. I did think to myself that this was such a Tranny cliché, photoing myself in a frock in the middle of nowhere, but the deed was done. I took a few more shots of rolling hills and jaggedy rocks, then briefly toyed with the idea of staying long enough to snap a sunset, but I had no idea what time that would be. I was rather pleased with a shot I got of Holiday jet passing by the evening moon, and that signalled the time to slip slide may way back to the car .

The endeavour worked really well and not once did I think of Conferences, Motions and PRBs

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Anton du Burke

I have fallen out of love (I’m just oh so fickle) with the suave, fragrant, orange, grinning dancer.

It’s my dad’s fault. When recounting our encounter below, he mentioned that Mr du Biggot had said that fat people should be shot. I took this with a pinch of lard, but against my every principle took a look at the interview on The Daily Malicious web site.

This is what he said below in an interview about health matters. It is hard to argue he was reported out of context 

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Have you ever been on a crash diet?

I've always been slim and active. I weigh 71kg and I'm 6ft tall. Diets are all nonsense: they don't work. Just don't get fat in the first place.

I've no time for fat people, they should all be shot.

What really upsets me is when I see fat kids. They've invariably got fat parents and they're the ones who are to blame. They need a good slap for having forced their bad ways on their kids.

When I was at school, there would be one fat kid in the class. Now there are hordes of them. I don't understand the psychology of fat people, nor the flip side of that, size zero.

I once taught dance to a girl with an eating disorder. I had to send her back to her mum because she had no stamina.

I don't mean to sound like a body fascist. In fact, it can be quite pleasant to have someone with a bit of wobbly flesh dancing with you.

I'm in two minds about whether very overweight people should be refused surgery unless they slim down. They have paid their taxes and they're entitled to treatment. But maybe they should be shoved to the back of the queue if someone comes in with a condition which isn't the result of eating themselves to 400st

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No wonder the poor confused man looked so scared when I approached him. I guess i had a bit too much wobbly flesh, perhaps he thought I would eat him or at the very least be standing in the queue in front of him for NHS treatment. I so wish I had trod with all my poundage/square heel on his right wing foot.

Lets hope his next dance partner is Dawn French, Jo Brand or maybe Hagrid

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes it is extremely childish to make Anton look fatter but it was fun for a few minutes

Vaguely Come Dancing

The Friday night before we Marched in London (see blog passim.) Vicky and I had an appointment with Anton du Beke and Erin Boag from Strictly Come Dancing (Dancing With the Stars, everywhere else) This was a Christmas prezzie from V to me.

The show was at the quaintly named Dukinfield Town Hall, just outside Manchester. Well, as usual we were in five minds about what to wear. In the end I went for a low cut sparkly top, black trousers (boring!) and uncomfortable high heel. Vicky was much more daring, debuting a short black, zip festooned punky dress and an even more unwearable pair ofheels.

Luck and Satnav, got us fairly near our destination till an overwhelming hunger forced us to visit the nearest Tesco Extra megashop thingy. Tottering and hobbling through the store full of soberly clad shoppers we looked kinda like off duty hookers. In my case well past her peak. By now, Vs shoes were so uncomfortable she toyed with buying an emergency wearable pair right there and then, but in the end just soldiered on. A car park refuelling on cheap sandwiches and pop over, we made our way through the Greater Manchester suburbs to arrive at our town hall venue. As we parked up we saw a couple of car loads of fellow dance fans disembark. My best guess was that they had an average age somewhere mid 70s. Looking at the pair of us, we thought that we may have misjudged outfits somewhat, and could end up standing out like sore thumbs at a hitchhikers convention (not sure that works!!). Still in for a penny in for a Paso Doble  .

When we joined the queue inside our fears were allayed a little. We couldn’t really stick out amongst such an eclectic bunch of people. The Local gentry were there in force. He all tux, chunky gold and Masonic bearing, she all ball gowned, painted grin and orange tan, contrasting with the teenaged dance school girls stood in giggly huddles, all prom dresses, dance pumps and vivid eye shadow. Then, there were the young couples, she in her best going out gear, while he wriggled uncomfortably in a new tie and shiny shoes. Oh and there was me and Vix.

The evening started with the dance floor open to all, although it was clearly not a space for the inexperienced hoofer. There were couples of all size, age and background, but the only status that mattered was their talent for a Tango. Some of the best dancers were the young girls whirling together without need for boys, who before Strictly’ hit the airwaves would surely have scorned ballroom dancing. Thankfully to any attending Health & Safety officer I decided to keep the light of my particular dance talent underneath my huge bushel. The only dance I know the steps to is The Timewarp from the Rocky Horror Show, and to be honest it would have been tricky to make it fit a Waltz.

The lights dimmed for the main event, and to the “duh duh duh duh, duh duh duurrhhh” of the Strictly theme on strode Anton and Erin. He was even more smiley and shorter than I imagined and she was just plain stunning, a figure that dying for would have been scantly enough. To be honest up close it all seemed a little unreal. Like waxworks come to life. At our table on the edge of the dance floor we were in tripping distance of them and we had to suppress that Lemming Syndrome that dared us to stick out a crafty leg. The dancing was an amazing spectacle of whirling  colours and immaculate footwork. Highlight for V was that when Anton was bantering with the audience while Erin was undergoing a second costume change, Vicky ended up in a verbal spar with the Sultan of Suave, the upshot being they seemed to have arranged a dancing night out on Tuesday.

All too soon it was over and we took our cue to queue. A&E had decamped to to an upstairs room where willing punters could have a meet, photograph and autograph. I decided to go barefoot so as not to tower over the petite couple, but mainly because after 20 minutes queuing my feet were killing me. As we were eventually ushered in, I could detect genuine terror in Anton’s eyes. He was a gentlemen though and after a hugs, hellos and a shared quip at Vicky’s expense we posed for pics, although the young aide who was using my camera somewhat struggled with the concept of focus. Vicky cheekily asked if she could have a pic for her phone and since then everyone she has met, has had her mobile thrust under their nose with an image of Anton kissing Vicky. I still maintain he may of been kissing her, but he was thinking of me.

All in all it was a slightly bizarre but fabulous Christmas prezzie outing. Soon back down to earth though as the next morning we were heckling the G20 from the Streets of London. A real compare and contrast couple of days.

Genderally Speaking

Well after my cock up at missing my appointment at Charing Cross Gender Clinic (insert your own cock up/gender clinic pun), I did manage to make one gender related appointment. This was the long awaited follow up with my Speech Therapist. I say long awaited because it had been afull 4 months since my last sesh.

I am acutely aware that my voice does not aid in my acceptance as a born anew woman. As an understatement that rank alongside saying that my size does not help me run a marathon ! My vocal failings were  brought into sharp focus when a short interview video was posted on a local paper’s website. I cringed at every flat dull syllable.

One of the added stresses is that speech is so vital in my job. Ranging from a compassionate sotto voce when empathising in a one on one with a distressed Union member,  to needing clarity and enunciation to convey detail over the phone, through assertive emphasising in negotiation meetings and upward to passionate oration at a conference before maybe thousands. Eeeeessshhhkk  ! when I think about it my head spins. I’m not convinced I make much of a fist in any of these categories at conveying a female voice. Hence Speech Therapy sessions, which thankfully my PCT NHS Primary Care Trust) fund, whereas some will not.

I have thoroughly enjoyed my sessions to date. If nothing it is a fascinating intellectual exercise. The differences between a male and female voice are not instantly obvious. It’s a self evident truth of course, that women generally speak at a higher pitch but that’s only part of it. There is the undulation, intonation, soft onset and more that make up women’s speech. After a casual introductory chat, where I know my Therapist is assessing my voice quality, we then went into a few exercises hhmmaaarrr, hhmmeeeee, hhmmmooooaaaa all with lips a tingling, trying to place my voice in the front of my head and not my chest. All seemed to go pretty well, and I was able to keep the practice going , until my first meeting. I have this terrible learnt behaviour, in that when I need to be taken seriously I subconsciously lower and flatten my voice like some pompous preacher. My verdict C- must try harder.

“By George she’s not got it”…yet