It’s a red-letter day, but there are too many men with whistles, too many women with balls and chains, and too many children, full stop. There are too many expectations, but we gather anyway, in closer proximity than anyone would really like, because any respite from the grind is to cherished like a newborn chick. Amidst the chaos, let’s hear it for the volunteers, with their clipboards and high-viz smiles, their eyes rolled up to white and speaking in tongues. And spare a thought for the cleaners, poised to swoop on dropped fag ends and consonants. Where would we be without them? Where are we with them? Where will we go when the squares and circles empty, and the red letters, still unread, return to their natural blue?
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor