‘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 

________________________________________________________________

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