‘People in wars get their legs blown off and don’t even notice because of the adrenaline,’ observes one. ‘I don’t think a chicken would feel a thing.’
A hundred yards away outside the catering tent, a dishevelled, bearded man rolls a cigarette and points at his heavily bandaged eye. ‘You want to know how it happened?’ he asks of no one in particular. ‘It’s a long story, a very long story, but it all started when I was kicked by a pony . . .’
Bizarre? Undoubtedly. But at least these members of the movement are capable of speech. Back in a corner of the marquee a man sits on the floor, unmoving, his head buried between his knees which he pulls in tightly to his chest. Maybe he’s just tired. Or, more likely, he’s inhaled too much of the cannabis spliff that the person sitting next to him is openly smoking.
Yesterday marked the 60th day of the anti-capitalist Occupy movement’s protest outside St Paul’s. Read More