Another cup of jasmine tea

chapter 6

London at the time was a peculiar place. In the early seventies there had been an oil crisis and a miner’s strike which had led to a three day week, power cuts and strikes. The IRA had planted numerous bombs in their terrorist war against the British. A few went off causing death, injury and outrage. But there were also many many bomb scares. You got used to evacuating public buildings and stations at a moment’s notice. It became normal. Race relations were not good either. There had been protests at neo-nazi marches, more protests at the Notting hill carnival, following Enoch Powell’s ‘rivers of blood’ speech. Football hooliganism on match days was common. In the mean time strikes occurred by civil servants, grave diggers, refuse collectors, firemen, car manufacturers, all kinds of big businesses were having problems with their employees. Unemployment was increasing. People were unsettled and unhappy.
The result was rebellion. In London that meant the birth of punk, a way to vent anger and frustration on society.
Zoe and Clem were both punks. Zoe worked as a waitress in our coffee shop, Clem worked as a chef. They turned their appearance down somewhat for work, but they encouraged me to go out with them on a Friday or Saturday evening. I was still only seventeen and legally underage to drink in a pub. I definitely wasn’t allowed in the clubs. They loaned me some black and tartan bondage trousers to try on with a ripped Tee shirt that featured lots of zips. The clothes felt weird, but no weirder than the hippie clothes when I'd first started wearing them. They encouraged me to shave off my dreads. Hippiedom was finished! Glam Rock had had it's day. Soon we would see disco die a death. They tried to get me to shave my dreads off. I could regrow my hair and spike it ups or just regrow the centre and keep the sides bald for a Mohican look. Zoe sprayed my brown, matted hair with a lime green hairspray instead.
They took me to the back rooms of pubs where new bands played their first gigs. The music papers were calling these bands 'post-punk'. I wasn't sure what they meant about that. The original punk had not reached the West Country. We had been listening to Reggae. While the north had been busy inventing Heavy Metal and Northern Soul. In less than five years, London would invent the New Romantic movement, with all it's dressing up and fancy make up. Well, my friends the 'post-punks' had made a start with the black eyeliner and the customisation of their clothing.
Personally, I didn't like the aggression of the punks, I didn't like the pogo, or the spitting. I was not sure if I understood them. I understood the calm hippie vibes. Kindness and friendliness should never go out of fashion, maybe that was why I was reluctant to let go of my dreads.

The refuse collectors went on strike and the bins overflowed with rubbish. Carol feared the excess rubbish would attract rats. No doubt there had been a huge increase in the rat population. She could not afford for rats to get into her kitchen. She insisted on a decrease in food waste. Any foods that had been out on display too long could not be thrown out, they had to be taken home by the staff and eaten at home. I did not protest about this. Maybe I would put on a few pounds, but after the crisis I could go on a diet and get rid of them... Or maybe I would start walking to work. Carol knew I lived in a squat with limited cooking facilities, so I received more food than anyone else, even though there was only one of me and others lived in large extended families.

Zoe told me I was putting on weight. Clem's clothes were getting far too tight for me. I was going to have to start eating a bit less... or go on a diet.

But I didn't.

I was eating more than ever and I wanted more!