Growing up in the 1970s/1980s in the London suburbs was great, even strikes seemed fun. Electricity strikes meant candles, Green Goddesses were something to spot.
Then my dad took me into the city and I saw and smelt the piles of rubbish in the London streets due to local Government strikes.
Not long afterwards, my mother, a teacher who taught even when diagnosed with cancer, came home, her hair full of dried phlegm, having been spat on, jostled and called a “Blackleg” by picketing ‘colleagues’ as she refused to strike. Her pupils were in exam period and she simply wanted the best for them.