I'm sat here playing tunes by The Bunnymen, The Teardrop Explodes, Dexys, The Clash, The Undertones, The Specials and a whole host of bands from my formative years. My kids are in the kitchen doing their homework while their mother makes tea. This isn't how I thought it would be.
I've been home from work an hour now, I received the news slightly over two hours ago. My gaffer's secretary called me, "Tom said to tell you someone called Thatcher died." I always imagined I'd drop whatever I was doing and head for the nearest bar. I envisioned doing irreparable damage to my liver and taking a few days off to drink, to celebrate, to have the last laugh. I saw myself dedicating pints and shots to the miners, the print workers, the hunger strikers, the 1 in 10, the unemployed, those dependent on the National Health Service, those killed on The Belgrano ( I won't berate her for the Falkland's War. If the people living there wished to be British they deserved the full protections of the British military in my opinion), those who had their full time jobs replaced by two part time jobs, anyone ever subjected to a YOP or YTS scheme, those priced out of further education and all those children who had their school milk taken away. I imagined it getting nasty. I saw myself getting silly and going and celebrating outside the British Consulate - 845 Third Ave NY NY.
Instead I'm killing time until tea and then I'm heading out to night school. I'm not even happy she's dead, I've felt no satisfaction. That doesn't mean I'm not sad she was ever born. There is a difference. They say the best revenge is to live a good life, I think they're right. So I'll raise a glass of milk tonight to all those who suffered under her government and I'll be content with the knowledge that the bastard never managed to grind me down. You're dead; I have a good life.