A LONDON LIFE
31st March

"WHOSE STREETS?" "OUR STREETS!" They didn't feel like our streets just then. My wife and I had travelled to Hyde Park to witness Saturday's Put People First march, the peaceful demonstration before the more controversial G20 protests planned for tomorrow. Only there was not much marching to be had.

Just Tony Robinson on a stage, a smattering of banners and, up near Speakers' Corner, a group of 100 or so black-clad anarchists, circled by the police.

"The march has finished, nothing more to see," one of those coppers warily informed us.

That's funny, there were supposed to be three hours of it left — and we doubted justice for all had been wrapped up by lunchtime and everyone had quietly gone home. But our further questions were ignored, for police eyes were now on the anarchists, who were gearing up to hold a mini-rally. We stayed to watch.

"Comrades!" said a crude sketch of an angry man, climbing a stepladder. "Don't think this is over. Today is a just a curtainraiser for Wednesday! We're not even in our f***ing seats yet! This is going to be a three-hour f***ing epic with a f***ing toilet break in the middle of it!" "I'm going to get a cup of tea," whispered my wife. "WHOSE STREETS?" "OUR STREETS!" yelled the anarchists.

As we walked off through Marble Arch, it was hard to shake the memory of the last time the streets really did feel they belonged to us, on the million-strong Iraq War demonstration of February 2003.

My wife and I had split up the year before but we agreed to a truce that day and marched together from Camden Town with carefully orchestrated groups of friends. In the multitude, breathtaking in its diversity and unity of aim, something was renewed. We felt part of something larger than ourselves. We got back together soon after; war began regardless.

On Saturday, the weather — blazing sun one minute, hail the next — seemed to reflect changeable hopes. The themes of the protest were too various, too vast and vague. Feeling despondent, we decided to call it a day.

Then we heard music. We watched as a vast column of protesters came up Park Lane — charities, workers, families, students, striding forwards to a glorious soul anthem. The police had seen fit to separate this group from the main march but only the very paranoid could have perceived a threat among them. Will they make any mark on the G20 leaders? Some hope. But sharing our umbrella with strangers in the crowd as it began to rain, at least, for a moment, it felt like our street after all.

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Post-script:
ON THE day this was published on the Standard website, I received a comment criticising me for criticising the police tactics. This is my reply (the original comment was deemed offensive and removed by the moderators)... I only publish it as it makes more explicit what I was hinting at in the original piece, and it seems quite relevant now in retrospect.

"I have nothing but respect for the police - I think it's our duty to respect our public servants - and, as you will gather from above, deep scepticism towards the anarchists. But with these protests, all police communications have talked up the possibility of violence - and on Saturday, the tactic appeared to be to keep the peaceful, family-oriented march from gathering any momentum.

What do these tactics achieve except make the rogue fringes spoil even more for a fight and keep ordinary, peaceful protesters away? In a democracy, it is the police's job to enable peaceful protest, not make it harder."

And look how that one turned out...