Autumn of 1987 – the great storm tore through the South London suburb where I lived with my children. I shivered in the darkness of that night as a mighty tree outside my window threatened to uproot and smash into the house. Clutching a birdcage with my children’s budgies in it, I crouched on the carpet alongside the cat, and my dog, Bootie. It all seemed strangely symbolic, especially when I learned later that the eye of the storm had been a caravan park in East Sussex. My Mother’s retreat, her much loved bolt hole, had been there and she had died in February; the destruction seemed meant.

It all seemed destructive that year, shattered by losing my mother I had to face the loss of my job in the summer. I had worked as a teacher running art and craft workshops in hospitals and day centres; I survived on part-time earnings and a tenuous contract. It was the ’87 recession, and I fell victim to the cuts as my paid work simply ceased to be. I was a single mum, my children were bright and studying for college, I tried to get work but failed, things were looking very bleak. I was also a lesbian – a lonely one. Mum had been my best friend too. Needless to say, I cried a lot.

I started to take an interest in politics and human rights issues. An avowed feminist for many years, I became aware of the existence of groups campaigning for lesbian and gay equality. I visited a large and energetic meeting, and, seized with enthusiasm, joined an emerging group called the Organization for Lesbian and Gay Action – OLGA. Very shortly afterwards I found my way to a grimy office block in Farringdon, and, after a period as a ‘tea girl’, found myself in charge of running a campaign office. Now my life had a purpose; I ceased weeping into my pillow every night and threw myself headlong into the gay political scene. I started by offering my skills as an artist, illustrating pamphlets and the like. Then Clause 28 happened.

I was walking back and forth outside the Houses of Parliament anxiously. I had been sent to talk to people demonstrating outside the imposing edifice. News of ‘The Clause’, a proposed government by-law that banned the ‘promotion’ of homosexuality by local authorities and, oddly, referred to the families of lesbian and gay people as ‘pretended’, had broken while I was busily photocopying flyers in the OLGA office. I had been asked to get down to the seat of government with alacrity to report on events. It was a chill, wet day and darkness had fallen early. All I could see were the usual desultory groups of tourists parading about. I could see no sign of any demonstration as all seemed to be business as usual. My anxiety levels reached fever pitch. If I returned to the office I would have to report failure. I panicked and decided to head for home. I started to cross Westminster Bridge, bound for Waterloo Station on the South Bank of the Thames. I was feeling unreasonably desperate. Then, a sudden compelling urge to leap off the bridge into the fetid waters below seized me. I was terrified, but I had to cross the river in order to get back to the sanctity of my suburban home. Absurdly, and to the amusement of passers by, I fell to my knees and crawled across the bridge. It felt safer that way. And so ended my first foray into activism ignominiously.