‘You may not click this if you know it’s about periods. You almost definitely won’t share it. But we need to talk about it.’
The above appeared on my Facebook newsfeed today and so naturally I clicked on it, being the curious (nosy) person that I am. I was slightly disappointed to realise it was an article about VAT on sanitary products and not something more novel, intriguing or grizzly.
Then after reading the article in The Independent, I changed my mind.
Taxing sanitary products because they are considered by our government to be ‘non-essential items’ is not just intriguing, it is bloody mind blowing (excuse the pun). And the fact that this is not a new debate makes it all the more curious. If my husband can use a disposable razor without being taxed then surely I should be able to use a tampon.
I am fortunate. I can afford the 5% VAT each month without having to forego my pint of milk but this doesn’t mean I should ignore it. The message it sends out is clear. It implies that a menstruating woman does not need modern sanitary products. Every month I could sit at home and bleed into a cup rather than go to work, go swimming with my children, ride my bike to the supermarket or run some miles for charity. I could do that. But why should I? I certainly wouldn’t have got very far in the military without a tampon or two stuffed in the pocket of my combat jacket.
I didn’t really have any issues when it came to my period before I joined the military. Apart from the standard cramps and smattering of spots on my forehead it was just a normal part of my life that didn’t stop me from doing anything.
Sunbathe in a bikini? If the sun is out then hell yes.
Pound the treadmill wearing lycra leggings? Of course, although I might go a bit easy on myself.
Go hiking across Dartmoor for a week with no access to a toilet or proper washing facilities? Umm, well I don’t suppose I have much choice in the matter if I want to pass my initial officer training…
I wasn’t even supposed to be on my period the week of ACE (the assessed command exercise), which was the culmination of the first seven weeks of officer training at Dartmouth and would determine whether or not I continued on to the next stage. Perhaps it was the worry of being assessed, or the thought of sleeping out under a bivouac in the pouring November rain, but on the morning I was due to step out onto the moors my period put in an appearance. My pockets were already stuffed full of nutty (sweets), gloves, string, a spoon, tissues, a compass, a whistle and more nutty – and now I needed to fit tampons in there too?
I was told to go to sick bay (the medical centre), so I did. The doc gave me some huge capsules to swallow that were supposed to stop me menstruating although they didn’t work. I spent the next few days changing my tampon crouched in a field and storing the used ones in a plastic bag in my pocket. On one occasion a female officer collected the plastic bag and disposed of it for me. On another occasion, I found a portaloo and couldn’t believe my luck.
Hygiene in the field is of utmost importance in the military. I tried to make the best of a less than ideal situation (baby wipes, hand sanitizer – you get the idea) and fumbled my way through. However, this would not have been possible without modern sanitary products.
I can’t say it was fun. A lowlight would have to be squatting to wee in the dark and then having a flare light up the sky around me, illuminating me mid pee with my knickers round my ankles. My body did seem to be plotting against me as on top of it bleeding when it wasn’t supposed to, I kept tripping over the babies heads as we yomped over the moors ( I don’t think my size 3s could balance out my Bergen which weighed nearly as much as me). Each time I fell, I was trapped like a tortoise underneath its shell until one of my team rolled me over and heaved me up. God damn it, you’re a dancer, I chastised myself. But I suppose dancers don’t have to carry their house across a stage full of potholes.
I ate a lot of chocolate on that exercise. The guy I was sharing a bivouac with had concealed several giant bars of Dairy Milk in his Bergen and shared them with me at night whilst the rain pelted on to our poncho that we’d stretched out above us.
One night, the rain was torrential. My buddy shoved a couple of chunks of chocolate into my mouth before telling me that we needed to move our bivvy. Despite being cuddled up in my sleeping bad I was already shivering and the prospect of getting drenched was unappealing. However with my mouth full of chocolate I wasn’t in a position to complain and before I knew what was happening my buddy was pulling up tent pegs and cutting strings loose with his knife.
Together we moved our bivvy on to higher ground where the water was unlikely to pool. This proved to be an excellent decision (which I can’t take credit for) as an hour later we were dry in our sleeping bags whereas others in our division were floating.
This officer training lark is all about team work though, so a mouthful of chocolate later I was up and out in the rain dragging bivouacs up the hill. I also remember lighting a cigarette for one of the overseas cadets who was shivering with just his eyes and nose visible out the hood of his sleeping bag and feeding chocolate like it was an illicit drug to anyone in need of a pick me up.
Completely forgot I was on my period.
An Officer and a Lady 