I passed through Clapham South a little earlier. On Friday, Malcolm Mide-Madariola was murdered here, stabbed to death, aged seventeen.
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Is there a starting point in the way we communicate that allows two people to fundamentally understand one another? Or is there something inherently wrong with assuming that someone will automatically get what you’re saying?
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We sit around a table. It’s a table which is replicated in organisations across the country. We look around, and agonisingly realise how little we represent the community we have come to serve.
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There are times when truly, there is nothing more I could want for in life than just to feel refreshed, to feel renewed and regenerated. To not wake every morning already drained from the expectations that are held. To become free from my own shortfalls and to approach everything with the unrelenting energy it deserves.
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I sit in a coffee shop just off from Carnaby Street, and it's worth giving some time to think about where I am mentally, and where I have come from over the last few months. Although perhaps I shouldn't post the exact text I wrote yesterday morning, I don't think there is anything wrong with sharing the thoughts I have during my dark days with others.
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This weekend was Pride in London – our annual display of celebration, of protest, of marching for our rights and LGBT+ communities’ visibility. But that was tainted by the hatred which eight individuals managed to incite by hijacking the parade with their anti-trans agenda forcing difficult decisions on this, our day, the day of LGBT+ people in London.
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