This weekend, there is a worldwide March Against Monsanto.

The last time I demonstrated against anything was the Iraq war. That was a long time ago, nobody listened, and I don’t feel safe anymore. Especially not six months pregnant – I’m not going to risk getting kettled. So yes, it looks like they’ve won. For now.

If you’re protesting this weekend, more power to your elbow. Instead, I’ve written a poem.


My Life As a Failed Freedom Fighter

I was one half of the Chinese Dragon;
I forget which end. Nineteen eighty awful-or-other,
walking boot-high by the peace march, falling in
beside my mother and all the other mothers.

We went with banners; chin-up and open mouthed.
I got tangled in the papier-mache head (or
perhaps I was lost in the beast’s cotton bowels)
and stubbed my toe. I remember it blood rimmed, sore,

laced with the throb of embarrassment. Tomorrow,
I won’t go to the demonstration. Pregnant, tired
and terrorised by justice, the police seem brighter now
and nobody cares who gets hurt on the hard road.