In the darkness I edged behind the cast-iron clock called Little Ben while some anarchist punks were throwing metal crush barriers into the road.

In the darkness I edged behind the cast-iron clock called Little Ben while some anarchist punks were throwing metal crush barriers into the road. It was the end of another mainly peaceful protest. Just then a tall, gaunt rough-sleeper, looking like an illustration by Mervyn Peake, lowered his head to mine and said: “Have you any money? It’s going to be terrible cold out on the street tonight.” It was like being interrupted by a poppy seller during the siege of the Alamo.
Things had been jollier early that day. The terrazzo prairie of Victoria station was scattered with travellers for the first time in months. Upstairs in W.H. Smith, teenage black girls were blocking in slogans for banners with felt-tips on bits of corrugated cardboard under the helpful eye of the woman behind the counter, as if it were a school project.

I’d wrongly expected civil disorder weeks ago. But then everyone needed a reasonable excuse for being away from home. The streets were a desert like the Thebaid of St Anthony, stark and thinly peopled by centaurs and satyrs. Now that we’re allowed barbecues and enjoined only to be home before the coach turns into a pumpkin, the season is open for spraying “ACAB” on the Cenotaph.

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