After Fingers and I were scourged by the flail of high ticket prices from St. Paul's Cathedral, we walked to our respective Tube stations. A six-man patrol of riot police tramped down the sidewalk without a step in unison. They had been posted to the other side of the church from the anti-Wealth protestors in anticipation of any violence from the squatters. Weeks had passed in peace. The coppers looked bored, but their hands rested on long batons and their feet sported manly boots. They were waiting for the order to disperse the crowd of dirty counter-culture demonstrators. It would be their pleasure to break a few heads, although it is in their interest to play the waiting game, since they are collecting overtime for these extra hours of serving and protecting the public interests.
Fingers and I walked by the four white riot trucks. I counted the police. Twenty of them were huddled within the trucks. The engines were running to heat the police. The weather was cold for late-October. None of them wore a smile, but this was a good gig. They still had jobs and in these days having a job was not a small thing.
Occupy everywhere.
It's a good thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment