Do You Hear The People Sing

Yesterday was the Put People First march and rally in London

5.00 am struggle out of my bit. Last nights flirting with Anton but a hazy blur. 
6.15 am . Finally decide on my rioting gear. Off one shoulder top, black jeans. Trainers (men's through necessity over choice) black hoodie, denim jacket. Weather forecast is dreadful. Packed vitals for day. Camera, blackberry, other mobile, emergency makeup, brolly,
6.40 am pick up Vicky. Join in some shouting at a naughty Spartacus.
6.55 join our ragbag 16 fellow Stokie marchers. We hoped for more but most of the Socialists failed to get out of bed in time
7.10 hit the road Jack. Actually the driver is called Kenneth but it didn't scan
8.45 Watford gap services . My second favourite gap (after the Cheddar) indulged in some non ethical corporate coffee. Least it wasn't Starbucks.
9.15 Cashpoint after spending all the days budget on a latte.
10.30 Dropped off at Horseguards. No horses disappointingly.
10.45 Charged 50p to use loo (I blame the bankers) lady attendant told me enquiringly it was the Ladies, I said with much annoyance, 'where else would I want' (I blame the bankers)
11.15 Raiding the unison stall for freebies for our branch. Bagged 5 caps 4 tabards, 2 flags and a dozen 'blow up thunder sticks' whatever they are
11.30 Assembled behind our UNISON Region banner mid way in the March queue. Indulged in some  banter with Regional staff (or the those from the dark side). I Got up everyone’s nose by taking pics (I blame the bankers).

12.15 WE MARCH, 12.16 WE STOP, 12.20 WE MARCH 12.21 WE STOP…continue for 3 1/2 miles or until your knees give out..

We marched and we stopped and we marched our way around central London. Down the Embankment and hung a right by Parliament we went. I’ve been on a few of these marches and this was by far the biggest, most vibrant, colourful, widely ranging, angry but peaceful protests I’ve been involved with. We rubbed shoulders, banged knees and clattered banners with:

Belgian Construction workers, French Fire Fighters, German Public Servants

TUC, RMT, NUT, an Alphabet Soup of Unions

Friends of The Earth Workers, Greenpeace Activists, Environmental Lobbyists

Anti War protesters, Pro Peace Campaigners, Charity Lobbyists

Communists, Socialists, Socialist Workers, Socialist Idlers,

One man band hectorers, 10 man band musicians,

Party Politicos, Party Animals, Anarchists, Organisers, Agitators, Preachers, Shouters, Singers and in the vast main just workaday people.

We merry band, we happy many, we angry mob. We sung chanted and chatted as the sun burst out. That day the sun shone on the self righteous. As we passed various bêtes noir such as Downing Street, The banks and The Ritz the crowd would break into chant many linking bankers and bonfires. Although there was much collective anger there was never any hint that it would turn to trouble as some of the press had suggested. The friendly police marking the route enjoyed our banter as much as they must have enjoyed the overtime. As we took in the famous landmarks, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, St James we made solid friends for the day, sharing stories of previous campaigns and remarking on the good weather. I became increasingly glad I was only carrying a flag and not one of the large banners which transformed into back breaking wind breaks.

We made the rally in Hyde Park at 4pm much later than expected and the speakers had already started. Compared by Tony “Time Team/Baldrick” Robinson there were passionate speakers from around the campaigning world. Best and most shouty of all was Mark Thomas comedian and activist. Check out his stand up on iTunes, especially “Dambusters”. Funny passionate  and moving, a rare combination.

By this time the weather gods had turned. The sunshine of the march turned to darkened skies and freezing sleet. I cannot recall being so cold in a long long time. Cold as we shivered, knees aching and hips sore, we were not going to leave early. There is no point to a protest if it is easy. Eventually it was time to find our coach for our journey back to northern civilisation.

As everyone else snoozed in on the cosy night darkened bus, I indulged in a little reflection. The blurry lights of the motorway traffic merged into remembered visions of rainbow flags. I felt bolstered to have been part of such a huge movement. We may not have changed the world on that Saturday. The poor were still poor, the oppressed still oppressed and the planet still creaked.

Who knows if we 40,000 made a difference ? One thing I do know, doing nothing would not.

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Facing Up to Being Down

Again another week has passed with as many Posts from me as Stoke City away wins this season, and this has been pointedly pointed out by tweeting pal Simon, who feels I may have lost my blogging soul to twitter.

My Depression and Other Animals

Its sharing time…” Hi everyone, I’m Jenny and I’m a screw up. Its been 2 hours now since my last screw up”

I’ve had a humbling week.

It came to a head with a card pushed through my door. Apparently there is a rat taken residence under the back step up to my yard. Seems this rodent is using this nook as a base to make raiding parties to the plethora of take away businesses that make up the commercial sector of my little corner of Stoke-on-Trent. It was bad enough thinking a rat was squatting at the edge of my yard but the card said that someone wanted to pop round to explain how they were going to dispose of it. It was the fact that someone wanted to come into my house that alarmed me most. You see I am not the most domesticated of creatures. Actually that’s like saying, Trevor & Simon weren’t that keen on doing bedding*.

To be utterly honest, and what other honesty is there I have been living in a absolute dump. Such a dump that I would not have dared to let anyone in my front door. Why have I allowed things to get to such a point, well I’m not absolutely sure. Yes, an inbuilt messiness is certainly a factor but how I have had so little self respect is more complex, or perhaps more likely more to do with my complex.

I think it is fairly obvious to everyone (evidently except me!) that I am prone to depressive slumps. I know I did last summer, which coupled with a dose of anxiety frankly left me a bit nuts (sadly still with nuts!) for a period. During spells like this I tend to withdraw under my bed covers, only venturing out to go to work. The legacy of this is the state of my house. Well no more. Now I’m not blaming my messiness on the state of my mental health, but it is certainly is a trigger, and vice versa. Well as I said, no more. An egg is enough.

I have to say its friends who have dragged my by the bra straps. Firstly Heather gave me a good pep talk during a late night MSN session and then, while I was working on Friday, a small swat team of 3, Vicky, Sam and Helen descended on chez Jen, unbeknownst to me. Well I knew Vix was going round but I didn’t know she had enlisted the others. They must have worked like Trojans on a bonus scheme, because when I got home I found myself in someone else’s house, with an actual floor to walk on. Anyway on top of that I was given a firm lecture to stop being so pig headed and if I get depressed for god’s sake see my doc. Its typical of me, someone working within mental health services yet too stubborn to recognise my own needs.

D’OH

Earlier in the week I made another screw up. To be more exact I made my screw up on the March 9th **

On Wednesday I was sitting staring blankly at my Calendar on outlook trying to find a gap to slot in, when some Annual Leave when I though to myself “when is my  next appointment at the Gender Clinic ?”. As I scrolled down my diary as far  as November with no answer forthcoming I realised I ought to call the clinic and find out.

Bbrrrrrr Brrrrrr …click “I wonder if you can help me. I’m ringing to find out when my next appointment is. My name is Harvey, Jenny Harvey.” “Can you hold a bit…cue, dum deeee deee dummmm deeee dumm deee dummmm click….hello? yes I’m afraid you missed your last appointment on the 9th March. We can’t arrange another appointment, Dr thingy will be writing to you in due course”

Oh Crikey, Oh F***, Oh Blimey, Oh S***.

Well I know the Gender Clinic is rightly very strict on missed appointments and feeling a touch ashamed and worried I wrote off to Dr thingy. For as much as anything it was because he has been tremendously supportive and I genuinely look forward to my sessions with him and I wanted to apologise personally. Missed appointments are a blight on NHS resources and on 9th March, I added to the blight. My excuse for missing the appointment is that I’m a dizzy idiot. Granted its not the best of my defences, but there you are.

So a week to forget . . . . .What week ? . . . . See I can get something right.

* If you never watched Going Live in the late 80s then don’t worry, just don’t bring your duvet * *pointless aside: my Union has stopped using the ths so it should be 9 March. huh!

 Next up, this week :

Speech Therapy, Anton & Erin, and on Saturday 28 March the G20 are in town , so as Marillion put it in Market Square Heroes…. ”We March”

http://www.putpeoplefirst.org.uk/

 

 

 

 

Playing the Field

I’ve been seduced by the lure of the twitter….eyes right!… There is clearly no internet fad that I wont tag along with. Blogger, facebook, messenger, twitter et al, if only real life didn’t get in the way then I could really embrace the 21st Century.

twitter is the latest social networking phenomena. Its basically a micro blogging network where you are limited to 140 characters to post, or tweet what you are doing. Sounds dull but it is addictive. You follow other twitters and every time they tweet it you are notified. The main plus of twitter is that it can be easily done by a mobile phone text. It also focuses your mind and as is obvious, I struggle to bring in any cogent thought at under 140  characters. The other thing that twitter is fab, for is stalking, I mean following famous people. Stephen Fry is the most infamous Twitter evangelist, currently followed by over 250,000. I have tried not to become a slave to celeb following, but I am now aware that Stephen Fry saw Watchmen yesterday and enjoyed it, that Richard Bacon ate a Fry’s (no relation) Chocolate Cream and learnt from Dave Gorman that yesterday was US Pi day, 3/14. Vital info I’m sure everyone can agree

Anyway I’m sure you all know this. The thing is I’m starting to feel disloyal to my blog. Twittering feels like I’m cheating on my blog, sneaking away when its not looking. My 1 year marriage to blogger must be creaking if I’m looking for excitement elsewhere. twitter feels like a younger, leaner, hipper model. I was going to use a different word than model, but couldn’t think of the male equivalent of a mistress, doesn’t that say a lot about our patriarchal society. However I will always return to Blogger. Tweeting has fun but Blogging has substance. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but how many of the greatest poets wrote limericks (my gawd that sounds pretentious!).  This old thing has been such a positive force in my recent life. Not only have I made some great blogging friends, and you know who you are, but through it I feel I’ve gained a little more understanding from friends and certainly it has brought my brother and I closer.

I think I can manage to keep both relationships going in tandem, although friends have been claiming that since I was been tweeting, and my how I’ve been tweeting I have neglected to update my blog. I, of  course, claim that this is nothing to do with my new suitor but that I have works in process and it is the tortured perfectionist writer that has been behind my delayed posting, but I fear no one outside my head believes this. So I’m going to try and keep up the post count while tweeting away in the background.

As Michael Jackson & Paul McCartney didn’t quite sing “Bluey Bird and Orange B, sit together in perfect harmony. Side by side on my Windows desktop, let us post and tweeeeet”

A Tale of 2 Sittings

Anyway back to real life (if we have to)

 This has been a week of the same old same old mainly. Work is fairly depressing having to deal with distressed members (that is not a side effect of my hormone therapy , before no one asks) and continual organisational changes (its a default position in the NHS). Outside work has been noticeable for 2 meals out. On Tuesday it was a rare chance to get dolled up, as we celebrated Debbie’s birthday in a charming Italian restaurant in Stone. As usual I panicked that I had absolutely nothing to wear darling, so on this thin excuse I hit Hanley spending nearly 80 quid on trousers, heels and handbag. I was unusually brave that night in plumping for a strappy top and bearing my strapping arms! Still I managed to get away with it and even my new heels still felt walkable by the end of the night, so I feel it was success all round.

Must admit that although I’m getting a little more confident with my appearance on a girls night out, I still think that I a tread a very narrow path between being lazily underdressed and inappropriately overdressed. I guess my compass is wobbly but still pointing Northwards.

Last night was a dinner do at quiz colleague Michael’s house. He was entertaining the complete female contingent of our quiz team,, in Victoria, Heather and myself. He was really sweet in offering to cook for us to make up for missing mine and Vic’s birthdays back in February. However, he slightly soured the sweetness by informing us that he was cooking a Weight Watcher’s meal  ! (like we need to diet!). He then compounded this souring, by marking one of the chairs for only himself to sit on, as it had a dodgy leg that may not survive the ordeal from us three (actually it was me that posed the greatest risk to life and chair limb). Again, I toyed all afternoon over what to wear. This was not because it was crucial to create the right appearance, after all I was just our quiz team. No, my inner Tranny was back, nagging at me. While sorting through some a pile of clothes I found a short denim dress. Now I had bought this dress over 6 years ago, back from those closeted days when things were bought without any expectation of actually having to wear in public.  In those days, I was never able to try on in the shop, and frankly this dress had always been woefully short of fitting. Indeed, on the first attempt I couldn't even pull the thing down my torso. Anyway, as I have lost some decent weight I decided to give said dress one last try before chucking. Lo, behold, it actually fitted, and although I would not have won a best dressed at Ascot prize, it looked sort of ok. So now a germ was planted and I started obsessing that I was going to wear it that night, even though I rarely wear dresses and certainly not one so short. I was going to bottle out and go for something more trousery, but that inner Tranny of days gone by, won over and with the thought of “Oh sod it, why not. I will wear it just because I can” that was my outfit for the night and for the second night of the week I think I got away with it.

In between socialising, I managed to fit in an afternoon at the scene of my first “triumphant” public outing Stafford town centre. It was an unusually bright afternoon and I took the opportunity to snap the church where my parents married, and stumbled upon an impressively fiery, busking juggler.

 

  

 

Testing the Pass

    < Mine’s the blue one

It's that time of year again. The one moment I dread more than the dentists, an inoculation and a work appraisal rolled together. That is MoT* time. I have a love hate relationship with cars. I love to drive them, to look at them, to feel them! but hate all the stuff goes along with keeping them on the road. My car history is as chequered as the flag. So far, every car has left my hands as a pile of junk, mainly on the back of a low loader, or occasionally as a part exchange, where some auto supermarket knocks off 1000 quid, that they would have discounted anyway, just for the privilege of taking out finance at their extortionate interest rates. On top of that, I have at various times, had a wheel fall off one, another set on fire and an engine totally seize at 50 miles an hour due to bring completely oil free. You see, my tried and tested and evidently failed method of car maintenance, is to turn up the radio so I can't hear the knocking noises anymore. Hence, I dread MoT time. I’m always expecting an insincerely glum mechanic with the to return from the test wielding a red ink filled form that turns out to be a bank balance draining list of auto woes. This is usually accompanied by that slow head shake and intake of breath that builders and mechanics use to convey bad and ultimately expensive news.

For the last few years I have a second reason to dread the test in that garages are grease filled black holes of masculinity. I am as likely to pass in this environment as a wolf in a flock. I usually find myself being referred to as mate, I I have known to subconsciously de-evolve into my historical maleness of old. I have even found myself grunting in harness with the mechanics with phrases such as “Hhhrrruuuurrrr Its all those speed humps that have buggered the shocks. Hhhuurrrurrr I blame the PC brigade** ” Well, this time I was deternimed not to fall into this trap, and in the words of every Big Brother contestant “just be myself”.

Tuesday morning found me sat in the reception / waiting room, pending the results from the probing of my Kia Shuma ***. I had dressed deliberately in a skirt and high heeled boots, rather than my usual trousers and flats for a working day. It was as if I needed to reaffirm my femininity. I watched as a string of customers came in dropping off and picking up their cars. A typical conversation went “I’m dropping off the red Modeo, mate”, “ Thanks mate, it will be ready Friday, early doors”,”Cheers Mate”, “Will you be paying by cash or check mate ?”. OK I made up the check mate gag, but you get my drift. That morning everybody was everybody else’s mate. What a friendly place!

I saw the mechanic who had been working on my car appear behind the reception desk with his sheaf of results. I tried to read his face, but could spot no tell. He would have made a superb, but oily poker player. “Miss Harvey?”, he said looking up. “All done, love”. “Has it passed ?” I replied with hope over expectation. “Yes, no problems. Just an advisory, your brake pads will last about another 5 k” . I almost grabbed the keys and paperwork with rude haste, wanting to get out in case he changed his mind. “Hang on sweetheart, I just need to take a few details”, and with only a short ado, I was away. I guess as a Guardian reader I shouldn’t approve of being called sweetheart and love, but for me, that morning it felt like I had entered the lions den and passed as an antelope, and still got away unscathed. It may have been true that the mechanic had read my gender status, and he was just a well adjusted and frankly nice man, but without doing him a disservice I choose to believe that I had both, passed the test, and passed the pass.,

* A mandatory annual check that your car is road legal.

** I would love to see a Politically Correct brigade, charging into battle considering the enemies feelings through the use of appropriate language.

*** A fine example of South Korean craftsmanship  of cheap plastics.

emergency post ??? Help Needed ???

Crossing the Floor is temporarily suspended

I have to set our quiz this week and so far out of 80+ questions I have set 6

Any ideas for interesting questions would be gratefully received and in return you would receive the very inconsiderable honour of having your name read out at the Meakins Cricket Club quiz (for our friends over the water, Cricket is Baseball with a degree)

I apologise for the gratuitous use of the word emergency

In case anyone was alarmed, I leave my favourite cat picture.

A Dry Spell

"Hi, I'm Jenny and I'm a Blogaholic. Its been 10 days since my last post"

I'm stuck .....

I went on the internet, and all I brought back was this lousy poem !

In your leathery face, Prostnic Vogon Jeltz

(Normal service will be resumed, whenever I have the faintest of an idea)