Okay now; get it right this time. …
Flight attendant, synthetic, postal worker, refuse collector, main copy, original plan, humankind, superior mind, table attendant, bar tender.
“My husband, he hates me going out. He jealous”.
“Course we women love doing all those handicrafts and crochet and knitting”.
“You’re not a feminist, are you?”
“You only go out to meet men!”
“We don’t eat garlic. My husband doesn’t like it.”
“We women don’t really want a career. We just work ’til we marry.”
Okay. See you next year.
One celebration (sic) for International Women’s Day in Hackney is a Breast Cancer Awareness Project for African women for 4 hours with creche, yoga and refreshments hosted by Hackney African Forum.
” ‘Pon my genitally mutilated clit!” exclaimed Mrs Kipling.
To the 72 year old Chinese Mauritian Londoner who over the year left the confines of her kitchen and crochet, stuffed her Freedom Pass into her noodle- box and went afar over the bridge to Stratford to sing , marched the Black Path for crocus bulbs out of Organiclea’s muddy bags, and stitched curtains for The Mill, went on across the Lea into Darnley Road to mould and finger clay, on to Queensbridge Road to thread beads, into Ridley Road Market to use a mic, upstairs into Intergenerational BSix’s unknown, and tasted Hackney big time, for the first time: To she who witnessed cusses on stage and learnt the joy of Hip Hop and S.E. Singers’ soul, who banged wool into felt in E17 and copied William M’s designs, to she who traipsed castles in Kent and twisted into shape a tea pot of plastic crochet whilst observing earth works from a tower on The Greenway, to that woman I offer my salute.
NB And she couldn’t have done it without Up Your Street.