ABSTRACT
Waterloo Station Nineteen eighty-two and nothing much seemed to be happening. Booed out of the OWAAD* conference, frozen out of the Black Women’s Centre and utterly perplexed by the distant rumblings of the sado-masochism debate as it seethed across the Atlantic like some bubbling boiling mist that no mere mortal lesbian could hope to enter and emerge from unscathed. It seemed to a Blacklesbian that there was nothing but gloom in the air. I mourned the passing of the GLF and hated my mother for not having me years earlier in order that I might have been there and seen real struggle and change, but ruefully I acknowledged that as a lesbian my space in that movement would have been limited. I had made one or two forays out into the wilds of CHE and found men horrified at the thought of coming out at work and intimidated by this strident harpie in their midst and concerned lest my political ramblings would go on past closing time.
