On Friday 21st January 2017 I shared on Facebook:
“It’s like when a close relative dies. You half wake and it’s a good day, a normal day. And then you remember….It’s the worst reality show ever. (Or ever, ever, as Trump would say).”
I spent the day on a ‘craft project’ and kneading bread. The bread rose exceptionally well.
Next morning, Saturday 22nd January, if not literally painted in wode, I rose fired with enthusiasm, shining out my inner wode, in Pictishwoman mode. I travelled with friends to Bristol to share the love, communality, humour and determination of 1000 women, partners, children, grannies and babies because I had to add my voice. I had to say this is not normal. He is not normal. Times are not normal. But together we are strong and we won’t be silent.
Knowing I was joining with millions of women all over the world, made me feel just a little bit better. I had to be with the truth tellers. People who can count, and do count in more ways than one. Who see black and know it is black. Who see white and know it is white and won’t be told otherwise. But don’t misinterpret this. We know a ‘race’ is something you run and is otherwise completely irrelevant to our friendships .Who know a combover con when we see one, and come on, really, we couldn’t give a fig about the size of your genitals Mr Precident (yes I meant that spelling). As one banner said ‘Melania, Blink if you need Help’.