19
Time
There are two streams of time here . In one it is 2010 and I wove through a crowd of irritated , panicked , excited passengers towards a noise whose origin , purpose or exact location I could not measure . In the other it is 2018 and I follow that weaving as closely as I can remember . I follow those few psychosomatic echoes of drumming I can muster from memory . In one stream I walked through the back exit of the station , crossed the spiral staircase leading to the station veranda and walked up the craggy slope designed for wheelchair users . In another stream this exit is blocked totally and I am forced to skirt the edges of the station , onto the pavement , pass shops and rusty benches equally as abandoned as that which has come before . Somewhere between these streams – in some imaginary , eternalist temporality – my footsteps of then and now touch . They echo one another over the span of years . In one stream , in 2010 , I move onto a cloudy Parliament Row and heard the roaring of men and women and the slapping sound of humans hitting riot shields . Resounding above all of this was the banging and the deep , male chant of E-E-EDL . In 2018 , I turn the corner to a Parliament Row devoid of crowds , chanting , banging , flying fists or the fluorescent jackets of police officers . Instead , it is quiet and cool . The only gathering is a group of pigeons pecking at a patch of pastry at the mouth of the alley opposite McDonalds .
There is an allure to both scenes . For silence it is obvious : peace , tranquillity , the perceived lack of danger . But for a crowd like that it is an animal allure , a need that spikes instantly to join and make noise and move violently , regardless of opinions , views or policy . The mass of people – the anonymity , the rapture – exists to swell , to call upon others to join its ranks . When I first saw the crowd I stopped , surprised , and started to slowly accept the circle of armoured riot officers , the yellow police vans , the signs reading Democracy not Theocracy , and No Surrender . Here were hundreds of men and women swearing at police and throwing themselves at riot shields . I watched – hovering in the Venn Diagram between shock , fear and fascination – as one of the police vans started to wobble , then bounce , as it was pushed back and forth by the crowd . A man climbed on top of another and started to jump up and down as he screamed . Almost 8 years later , all traces of the crowd have been erased . As I make my way towards the centre of town I see that even the paving has changed , and futuristic-yet-functional lampposts , bins and multicoloured strip lighting has appeared . Benches are no longer of the iron variety that once lined the perimeter of Wetherspoons but exist as round , rectangular slabs of cold marble to perch on for no more than 5 minutes . Small trees have also arrived . They are manageable , beautifying evergreens . A homeless man and his dog beg for change under one of them .