It's just been a tough two weeks. As with my personal writing as with my day job, often getting people to see, understand, and acknowledge one's own experience and and reality of situation is incredibly difficult. I'd have loved to have sought solace in the literary lately though, instead of the literally. But I've not had time even to have a proper dinner in the evenings; not that I'm complaining - I like crumpets. Just not every evening. I'm also incredibly disappointed and more than a tad angry that despite several emails, the books sections of the nationals have ignored the centenary republication of Miss Nobody, which is rather fucking apt given the title and that she has been ignored for so long thus far! One expects more from The Guardian though - as ever, one can't help but come to see it as yet another Oxbridge dominated media outlet and spouter of their own brand of hegemony. One can't find a home anywhere these days.
Those who heard Ed Miliband's speech may have focussed on what, for me, was a fantastic identifier: story. He shared the stories of a few ordinary citizens. A scaffolder, an ambulance controller, a single mum. In doing so he shared their voice with us. These voices are what we don't hear enough of - and certainly not directly, although it does explain the popularity of talk radio with their phone- ins. Although our public discourse is still dominated by men. I love men, really I do, but they are only half the story - and that's all they should ever be.