Watching Suffragette gave me time to contemplate how my own feminism is getting on, how male interpretations sneak into everything (yes still), and how small girls are indoctrinated with pink and dollies and make-up (the pages of any toy catalogue are a perfect horror show).
One seasonal example: Mary is the only woman appearing in the vast majority of Nativity scenes displayed at this time of year. And I don’t believe it. Quite apart from female solidarity, women buzz round new babies like wasps round jam. So when I knitted up Jean Greenhowe’s crib scene a few years back, it acquired an improvised figure: the innkeeper’s wife, who has looked out a blanket left over from her own babies, and is about to give it to the infant Jesus.
Maybe this year I could knit the bossy WRVS lady who lives in Bethlehem and has just heard about Mary. I can practically hear her rushing up the road, full of good advice for a first time mother (possibly rather more advice than Mary actually wants), and bringing a pot full of nourishing stew, which will, of course, be incubating efficiently in a hay box.