I grew up in a household in which Thatcher was something of a dirty word. We were living in Yorkshire in a period of my childhood that coincided with The Miners Strike (83/84). As my father collected us from school, we had to drive through police checks and with his London accent he was often identified as a possible ‘flying picket’ even with three schoolgirls in the car with him.
I remember that.
I remember the miners’ wives coming door to door asking for money to support their families during the strike
I remember returning south and trying to defend in my rather unsophisticated childish ways why the mines couldn’t close and how important they were to the people whose livelihood depended on them.
I remember the righteous indignation raised against a heartless Conservative government who had showed a callous regard to community and Scotland (I have a Scottish parent!) and anywhere that wasn’t London
I remember the excitement I felt, after the poll tax riots and the ‘stalking horse’ election that anyone other than Thatcher could be a Prime Minister. I grew up with her and was of a generation described as Thatcher’s children.
I don’t know if it is age that has changed my views or just a greater understanding of the nature of politics and politicians.
The revelation (confirmation really in the face of many rumours) that she has dementia made me sad all the same. Best wishes to her and her family.
SouthbankSteve at Flickr