I watch people, I observe them. I am attuned to big politics, middle sized politics and micro politics. It is a burden I do not carry easily. I find my species fascinating, sometimes incredibly generous, sometimes cruelly mean and sometimes, just plain stupid. The air is full of insecurity just now and not only at an individual level. As a child of the sixties I was involved on the fringes of protests. My protesting tended to be through words; poetry, indignant missives to Councils and other organisations, except for two occasions.
My only contribution to mass protest was when I joined the Anti Vietnam protest outside of the American Embassy. Whilst I was passionately against the war and, in absolute sympathy for the American troops who were being so brutally slaughtered and tortured, my attendance at the demonstration was as an observer. I wanted to see what a street protest looked like, tasted like and sounded like. I imagined myself as a cub reporter fancying that I would be able to offer an article (to whom I had no idea!) with a quirky angle.
I chose my 'uniform' very carefully. A very purple two-piece satin suit with short skirt which I had bought from Portobello Road - one of my most favourite places in London - and the most ridiculously high heeled shoes. Armed with a notebook and pen I set off to report.
The first thing that struck me was the sheer size of the mass of people. As a country girl, used to wandering alone through woods and across fields, I always struggled with London's crowded streets. Something that did not leave me for twenty-six years. The second thing was the noise. Oh how loud it all was!
I perched against a fence and started to write. I cannot remember a single word I wrote and of course did not keep the notebook. I found myself watching more than writing. A sense of unease began to wander through me. I had not realised that I was crowd-phobic, a condition that can freeze me on the spot these days resulting in a panic attack. The noise got louder and the chants more threatening. I stepped away from my perch to find my way back to the tube station and the crowd surged forward. As it did so I was swept up by the momentum and found myself being forced against the 'Thin Blue Line' with my face pressed against the chest of a rather large policeman. Policemen in those days did not dress like Robocop. They carried out their duties, whatever they were, in the same blue serge uniform. I have a particular fondness for blue serge.
I tried to step back from the officer but my way was barred by what seemed to be hundreds of bodies. I was trapped and I could feel my panic rising. The spell was broken in the strangest way. The chest I was forced to lean on commanded me sternly 'It's no good you pushing here girl' and I explained that I wasn't doing it on purpose. I was convinced I would be arrested for assault on a police officer when another voice down the police line called out 'You can push here darling!' and the line of officers laughed. He was rather attractive and I was minded to accept the invitation. In that moment, however, my erstwhile belief in the power of protest was shattered. It had been distilled from something huge, something important and powerful, into something silly and yet frightening. I managed to extricate myself without arrest or injury and to wend my way back to the relative peace and quite of Shepherds Bush. After I had left the demonstration became violent with assaults on officers and even on the police horses. I was appalled by the reports and vowed never again to attend a demonstration.
The second occasion I am not necessarily proud of but it illustrates that even a passionate pacifist can toy with primitive behaviour. Tis a thin veneer this civilised stuff. I was living in Chiswick and was a happy little bunny. I loved living there, once I had realised that London was actually made up of a series of villages. I belonged to Chiswick with it's quirky shops, wonderful restaurants and the air of Bohemia. A sort of almost growed up version of hippiedom. I had a lovely flat, a good job and could afford to eat in any restaurant.
I cannot remember which set of strikes it was but the streets of London were covered in rubbish. The summer was very hot and the air was heavy with the smell of rotting debris. People were trying to manage their own waste as best they could but a few transported their trash to other premises and houses. The local Council, I seem to remember, did offer a collection service but there was a financial cost involved. At the end of my road was a well known fast food establishment which I had frequented once or twice. They stored their waste at the rear of their premises refusing to accept the collection service. The pile had filled the vacuum, spilled onto the pavement and was headed towards the road. And, yes there were rats.
Rushing to work (I was ALWAYS late - even though I lived ten minutes away) I managed to avoid the stinking mess by stepping off the pavement onto the road. What I did not see was the plastic tape used to secure parcels and got it tangled around my feet. My fall to the road was not particularly elegant and for a moment I lay on the tarmac wishing that it would swallow me. Eventually I got up to discover my stockings torn, my leg bleeding and worst of all, the heel of my shoe broken off. I went from humiliation to white hot anger in less than a second.
The manager was just opening up and I stormed in and, well, it's true, I shouted at him. In fact I probably ranted and raved having previously asked him several times to clear the rubbish off of the pavement. I had been civilised, pointing out the service offered by the Council and had even reported him to Environmental Health. When I paused for breath he laughed. What -a-mistake-a-to-make-a! My dander was well and truly up! I warned him I would return the following day and expected to see that he had cleaned up. My employer found me strangely productive that day...
I knew he would ignore me but I had a plan. I fully expected the rubbish to be even worse the following day. It was. I waited for him to open the front door and I casually wandered in. Speaking quietly I told him that ignoring me had not been a good idea. The sneer on his face said it all. I reached into my handbag and took out my rather lovely Ronson lighter and without uttering another word, flicked the wheel and lengthened the flame. I then reminded him that we had not had any rain for weeks; I suggested that I could assist him in disposing of his rubbish if he would like. The sneer slipped down his face onto his chest. Heart beating furiously in my ears, I turned round and went off to work. I was wracked with guilt as I calmed down. Convinced, again, that any moment now the office door would be flung open and six burly policemen would rush in to arrest me.
The following morning, not only could we all safely negotiate the pavement again but the space behind the shop had also been cleared. Hmmmmm I wonder what it was that changed his mind..... ?
Take care, stay safe
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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