I was Boudicca. Note the warlike expression in my eyes. The proud, erect figure commanding the respect of men. The way I’m fiddling with my cardboard breastplates as if uncertain where the things they are supposed to be protecting might be.
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It’s the huge, intelligent heart beating through his politics. He always found the time to tell his son Fermin – who grew up to be an accomplished artist – a bedtime story. His feminism. His firm principled life-long stand against all forms of oppression.
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