|Unknown occupier inside barricade at dusk|
Occupy campers have built a barricade for a last stand against eviction, due any time from midnight. Hooded people hang around in the slippery mud. 'I hope it's tonight,' says one. 'Please come.'
I sit inside the wet barricade on a wet chair in the wet, drawing wetly on wet paper. My watercolour pencils weep. When their tears dry I dip their points in puddles. (The drawings die in the night, colour and line blotted and leached away.)
The battle of Portaloo began after the hiring company confiscated the original toilets, campers having rendered them impossible to clean on site. ('Worse than Glastonbury,' said one.)
|Inside barricade perimeter|
|Portaloos - ghost image on blotter|
Back in the rain, a man peers inside a Portaloo (replacements were ultimately organised in a private, desperate decision against the spirit of consensus) then looks inside the second one. He enters the first.
|Remains of soaked sketches of Tom|
(peeling clementine, right)
Andria has devoted her resources to helping addicts at the Occupy sites: 'I've fed them when they've been hungry, I've seen to their wounds. I'm like that Mary in the Bible. The other one.' Today she takes a foundling camper under her wing 'because I'm a Mama and he's a baby.'
|Andria - ghost image on blotter|
'Fie on't! ah, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.'
I take Doctor in the House by Richard Gordon.
My drawing is as unproductive as the contaminated soil. I'm cold. I'm going.
Oh, there's the glamorous profile again. E has abandoned his crutches prematurely and springs/limps/swaggers purposefully towards Moorgate with two other regulars.
'Where are you lot going?' I shout.
'Wait here,' E shouts back.
He points at me: 'You're not allowed to.'