Pearls and beer on a sunny day.

So I got the date of the marriage rally wrong a few times - it was actually on just last Sunday.
And hey. I actually made it along.

A few phone calls with Miss Z.
A bit of last minute costume dramas.
A hastily prepared placard with thanks to Mr M.
Red and white sun dress, white buttoned gloves, pearls, red felt and feather hairpiece, sunnies, and a placard made from a white cardboard shopping bag.
Perfect for a femme-y march down Oxford St on a sunny spring day.
Miss Z wore her veil like a cape and the wedding vows screen-printed on her black singlet.

Wonderfully, there was a nice contigent of 'messy' folks - you know - those folks that don't fit into the nice neat boxes people like to create, of gender, relationships, and sexuality.
I was afraid it would be a march full of pretty gay boys and doting lesbian mums intent on proving that they are so normal and not a threat to the status quo, that they should be allowed to marry.

Dear Mz N made a speech that included all the variations around. Starting with her rousing twisted rendition of the national anthem.
A couple of norms didn't realise she was taking the piss at first, and started to join in.
Until she veered off on a lyrical tangent of course.
Wonderful!

The Socialist rent-a-crowd was there. And I was torn between appreciating their organisational abilities and the extra people, and feeling cranky that they were talking Iraq while the rest of us were thinking we were at a same-sex marriage rally. Time and place folks.

I was glad to see a few folks who I know are getting hitched soon due to the luck of their british citizenship. Lovely to see that they weren't resting on the laurels of such luck, and supporting others who have no such options.

In marvellous trashy queer fashion, a few folks took advantage of the march going past a bottle-o, and took a detour, joining the parade of people a minute later with a six-pack stowed in the backback.
My neighbour was one of them, offered me a cold one when they got to the end. Beer-drinking with a view of the trees, the activist truck-stage, the Archibald Fountain, and St Mary's Cathedral. I declined the offer - but appreciated their fine sense of aesthetics.

The day came to an early end, via pubs and a pub dinner. Wandering home through the back streets, placard still in hand, cardie buttoned against the chill evening air. Eventually crashing early to bed all worn out.