Making History.

02/07/05
Trivial Observations of the day.

03:00: In pre-dawn light, the cool, moist air lifts honeysuckle scent up to my room, to mingle with the coffee aroma which swirls within my hands. It’s good.

04:30. It’s raining. A solid, light blanket of rain. It’s good, too, but it threatens to continue, adding resolute gravity to the day. Nothing would stop the thousands in their plea.

05:10 The pigeons above the university steps sure know how to scream. Though not as loudly as the woman who hollers from her window opposite, in sleep-ridden, or drunken slurs “Get on the Bus!” and “Where you going?” repeatedly, until one of the coach-load yells back “We’re off to make history” at which pint, her skylight shuts and all is quiet. Except for the pigeons.

11:08 We’re late, the coach has nowhere to park.

14:00-ish After an hour’s wait, the crowd wanting to march are getting bored. Beneath the shade of sycamore, is a Spanish-singing dude, and his enthusiastic companion, whistling through his teeth, and slapping his thighs as makeshift drums until he had to stop, in pain. At which point, he merely bounced and clapped as the tempo grew. A small crowd formed. They were great.

14:45 There’s a weird little dance production, with orange t-shirts, labelled as poverty stricken countries, and a grey sheet-covered Bush-alike, with an inflatable globe and money on a stick. Each person clambers after the thing, falling over each other to the beat of samba drums. I’m confused.

15:55 Finally, things surge through the temporary gates. Wish for a moment that I’d taken my camera, if only for the banner hanging from the castle, and the giant sea of indistinguishable white.

16:50 with coaches everywhere and no Edinburgh Police or wardens, we’re going to be late for the coach. Our coach driver and a pub landlord give us the WRONG DIRECTIONS. Fuck. We’re lost.

23:20 Millennium square is hosting a live8 viewing. Think about heading there for the final 40 minutes. Head for taxi rank instead.

23:25 Am torn between amusement at, and wanting to sever flesh from the guy behind us in the queue, who’s friends described him as being a pissed wanker. Accurate ananlysis. After a few moments, he’s seen my MPH shirt, and is rambling about Making The Poor History, because they’re stinky. Fuckwit.

23:47 listen to the final 13 minutes of London’s Live8, followed by Toronto’s, on radio, on the way home. One bucket of tea later, the TV provides more coverage, well into the early hours. All is good.