Monday, 23 January 2017

Women's March London

The last time I marched in London was over 30 years ago on a student protest. I feel I've been quiet too long. It's a bright, cold day as I set off for the capital. Local trains are out and my husband kindly gives me a lift to the end of the central line, playing his part for the cause. I'm soon exchanging smiles and nods with placard carrying passengers. I wish I'd made one. The placards are brilliant, witty, meaningful, poignant, defiant. Trump's rhetoric and behaviour the catalyst for this protest, but not the only cause. I'm marching for my daughter, and with my daughter, for equal rights for her generation, for all women.

It's exciting, uplifting, as Sandi Toskvig says, cheering. Grosvenor square is packed. It takes us an hour to shuffle out, accompanied by the sound of drums, whistles and trumpets, chants and songs. There are women there are men, there are children on shoulders and in pushchairs, older couples holding hands, LGBT couples and individuals, women of all colours and religions, together. It's inspiring. So what next? I won't be quiet so long again.