The sixties were never like this. Not that there was a lot of activism going on at the Ungarra Primary School in those days – apart from all the girls loving Paul more than John. But at the Women’s March in NYC today that’s what the grandmas were saying, that the event was bigger, brighter and more boisterous than anything they had ever marched in before. And there were a lot of grandmas to say it, and grandchildren, and women in as many shapes and sizes as the pussyhats they were wearing, there were fathers, teenagers, and girls. Thousands and thousands of people turned up with their signs and their slogans. Not my president – resister – nasty women unite – love trumps hate – climate change is real, not like Trump’s hair – plus many explicit rejections of the (now) president’s plundering of private parts. Today there was an energy on the street that restored faith. Women leading a movement. It was inspirational, almost evangelical, a beehive of emotion and purpose. Drummers pounded a path for what police intended would fill two lanes of 42nd street heading from east to west, but people thronged across the entire space, jostling for position to march or to witness. There was camaraderie between strangers, with empathy turning electric as cheering sparked waves through the crowd. The new president may have taken office, but there is much to be done. I have a pink hat being purled together in readiness. And like Obama said, if you want to make change, get a clip board and get busy. This is day one, the next one thousand, four hundred and fifty nine are going to be interesting…