I rise from my nice warm bed and having made a morning drink for my beloved wife, and one for me, I run a bath. As I luxuriate in that warm bubbled water I reflect on how lucky I am.
Later, washed and dressed for the day I sit at the table and enjoy a fine meal from God’s harvest and again I reflect, and I feel… guilt!
Guilt for the small children who have no homes in which to feel safe guilt that so many of them will not eat again today.
I feel guilt for all of the poor women around the globe who will this very day give birth to babies who they will surely love but in whose having they had no choice… no one ever hears their terrified voice. Poor women beaten by poverty who still struggle to feed those children and yet too those who violate them so.
I feel guilt for all the men who cannot be made to realise that the world is not theirs to design, and at the way that some men feel their own importance trumps all other considerations, and guilt at all of the war ravaged lands.
And when I look down at the bounteous fare before me I feel only one thing – shame.
A tenter was an assistant to the weaver, the one who had the highly dangerous job
of keeping the bobbin loaded and in line with the shuttle. The tenter also had to
feed the loose cottons back in. All highly dangerous, especially for a small child.
There were many brave women who struggled for enfranchisement. Annie Kenney was just one. There were those who gave their lives to the rightness of the struggle.