humanity restored. Tick.
I seem to have lost my humanity somewhere between 30 and 31 degrees. About to head off to the Northern line through London Bridge armed with a vengeful man-made fibre outfit. That’s code for class war anywhere on the pre-holiday commuter belt. In addition to bad films and old people wearing festival wrist bands, summer season has some pretty distressing consequences. Nonsense-politics-party-funding-hypocrisy- laughable-leadership-tax-avoiding-jiggery-olympic-cover-up-21-hospitals-14-trusts-au-revoir-compassion. The entire cabinet spending quality time on the borrowed yachts of close oligarchic chums.
Warm glow of humanity? Frack-right-off.
Just as well then that I’ve been hauling my sweaty carcass around the UK recording the voices of Unison members about their experiences of getting on with life. I’ve listened to a conversation between the wise ladies of Newcastle about how to get your career cracking post 40 (answer, Return to Learn). The words of a Scottish HR manager in the NHS who is still fighting the corner for decent jobs on the coal face of emergency services post Francis and Keogh. The Geordie Buddha and the Brummie Che Guevara, both cleaners. Then the only other therapist I’ve ever met who joined a union. She was being bullied by a male manager in a rape crisis centre.
Despite the sampling of the very worst of public transport that this involved listening to the stories of other human beings has meant that I have successfully managed to cling like a limpet to the slippery rock of humanity.
Don’t get yourself into a frizzy haired tizz this week, just lick the ice-lolly-cool of other people.