By Gabrielle Jackson
As Australians, I don’t think we can ever understand the impact Margaret Thatcher had on the lives of the British population.
She was such a huge force – for good or evil, depending on where you stood. She was bigger than a politician. Her influence was greater, arguably, than any politician this country has seen. She was completely polarising; people either loved her passionately or hated her fiercely. Where you stand on this defines you.
I didn’t know all this before I moved to London in 2003. Of course, I knew she was the longest serving British prime minister who was known as the 'milk-snatcher' (she cut government sponsorship of free milk in schools) and breaking the unions, but I didn’t appreciate just how divisive she was.
In 2011, when Thatcher was already quite ill, I decided to go to a Halloween party dressed as her. I bought a rather lifelike latex mask that fit right over my head, providing me with both her face and distinctive bouffant. A twin set, pearls and brooch completed the look.
I left my home and marched down the Kingsland Road in east London. I immediately heard horns beeping and people screaming. It didn’t take long before I realised all this attention was directed at me.
‘Why don’t you just die!’ someone yelled out of their car window.
Others banged on the glass of the take away restaurants we past. Some waved benevolently. Others issued rude hand gestures.
When I arrived at the party, things didn’t pick up.
‘You RUINED my family’s life!’ one man spat in my face.
‘Why her?’ another lamented. ‘Why’d you have to ruin my night?’
It was Halloween; I knew I was supposed to be scary, but I had not anticipated this reaction.
I should have.
My first job in London was on a magazine at an engineering firm. I was invited to attend an event with the communications team at the company. Part of the event was to stand up and talk about the best and worst moments in your life; what had made you who you are, in other words.
Two of the four senior managers in the team described Margaret Thatcher weeping on the steps of 10 Downing Street, after being forced to resign, as the greatest moment of their lives.
On the other end of the scale, Simon Stillwell was compelled to write this about her in his post for this blog:
‘I love the Iron Lady. I do. I really do. She is my heroine. She was, and remains, an inspiration and I cannot think of a single global figure who had such an influence on my life.’
The overriding theme of the coverage of her death is that she was a conviction politician; that she will be remembered for that.
In Britain, nobody needs to be reminded of her legacy, at least not those aged over 30. They feel it deep in their bones, as deep as we Aussies feel about a sunny day.
As Australians, I don’t think we can ever understand the impact Margaret Thatcher had on the lives of the British population.
She was such a huge force – for good or evil, depending on where you stood. She was bigger than a politician. Her influence was greater, arguably, than any politician this country has seen. She was completely polarising; people either loved her passionately or hated her fiercely. Where you stand on this defines you.
I didn’t know all this before I moved to London in 2003. Of course, I knew she was the longest serving British prime minister who was known as the 'milk-snatcher' (she cut government sponsorship of free milk in schools) and breaking the unions, but I didn’t appreciate just how divisive she was.
In 2011, when Thatcher was already quite ill, I decided to go to a Halloween party dressed as her. I bought a rather lifelike latex mask that fit right over my head, providing me with both her face and distinctive bouffant. A twin set, pearls and brooch completed the look.
I left my home and marched down the Kingsland Road in east London. I immediately heard horns beeping and people screaming. It didn’t take long before I realised all this attention was directed at me.
‘Why don’t you just die!’ someone yelled out of their car window.
Others banged on the glass of the take away restaurants we past. Some waved benevolently. Others issued rude hand gestures.
When I arrived at the party, things didn’t pick up.
‘You RUINED my family’s life!’ one man spat in my face.
‘Why her?’ another lamented. ‘Why’d you have to ruin my night?’
It was Halloween; I knew I was supposed to be scary, but I had not anticipated this reaction.
I should have.
My first job in London was on a magazine at an engineering firm. I was invited to attend an event with the communications team at the company. Part of the event was to stand up and talk about the best and worst moments in your life; what had made you who you are, in other words.
Two of the four senior managers in the team described Margaret Thatcher weeping on the steps of 10 Downing Street, after being forced to resign, as the greatest moment of their lives.
On the other end of the scale, Simon Stillwell was compelled to write this about her in his post for this blog:
‘I love the Iron Lady. I do. I really do. She is my heroine. She was, and remains, an inspiration and I cannot think of a single global figure who had such an influence on my life.’
The overriding theme of the coverage of her death is that she was a conviction politician; that she will be remembered for that.
In Britain, nobody needs to be reminded of her legacy, at least not those aged over 30. They feel it deep in their bones, as deep as we Aussies feel about a sunny day.
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