“Scab!” I can hear it. I feel it. I’m old enough to remember The Strike. I remember my dad and uncles on the picket line. I remember my mum and the other women discovering a new power. I remember the sense of pride across the community. I remember those gay and lesbians visiting. And I remember that word, that chant echoing the police truncheons on their shields. And I can still the disappointment in my dad’s eyes when he saw his mate on that bus. I remember it all as I cross the line and sit at my laptop.