After the speeches, people drifted away from the demonstration, some still wearing outfits representing the main focus of their complaint.
Having responsibly abandoned their placards, a group of five in search of food and drink settled themselves in the Hog’s Head and placed their orders.
These were veteran activists. They had witnessed mounted police moving through the crowds at the poll tax rebellions; they had collective memories of the ‘not in my name’ protests; they had stood with the miners during the long strike; two could even look back to the anti-apartheid rugby protests in 1969. Between them they had been kettled, abused, arrested and beaten.
Brian was becoming inclined to scepticism: ‘Have we really made any difference? I mean today, will it bring any serious action on climate change do you think? Will anything actually shift?’
‘You couldn’t not try to stop things you feel are bad, could you? How could you live with yourself?’ This was Ella, who strongly opposed many things.
‘Yes, but look at those Brexit protesters. They stood around College Green in all weathers but in the end they lost the fight,’ Brian again.
‘Maybe, but they were on the right side of history. I’ve a lot of respect for what they did,’ George mused, and was backed by Susan’s quiet nodding agreement.
Jemima, still in a condition of barely controlled rage at the sluggish outcomes from the latest COP conference, was inclined to share her own compelling story of activism.
‘Never question your use of the right to protest. I was six when I discovered the power of direct action. I’ve never since doubted the ability of ordinary people to make change happen.’
‘Please, tell us more,’ Susan was a sucker for a good yarn.
Jemima was a skillful narrator. Whether she was a reliable one, you must be the judge.
This was a Christmas story in which the six-year-old Jemima was becoming increasingly disaffected with the whole bean feast of holiday preparations.
For the most part she evaded transactional situations such as sitting on the knee of an oddly dressed male stranger in return for a tawdry gift concealed in cheap wrapping paper. She distrusted the elf-spies, reputedly employed to find out about her misdeeds (scabs).
On hearing that a strange man would come down the chimney of her home on Christmas eve to leave presents, she was beyond outrage, and not a little alarmed.
‘I took direct action,’ she told the group. ‘I pushed the settee right into the hearth to stop Santa getting into the room. Then I went to sleep on the settee. Job done. He simply couldn’t get in.’
‘Success, but no presents?’ Ella was impressed but a bit sorry for six-year-old Jemima.
‘Plenty of presents. My mum was proud of me. Said I’d taken a stand for children everywhere.’
‘Oh, is that my mac ’n’ cheese? Hope the cheese isn’t vegan. Anyone else got a tale of their awakening to share?’
