So I did what any Londoner would do at a time of trauma and confusion. I stumbled into the nearest Pret A Manger, paid far too much for a fix of caffeine, and stood fingering the fruit bars surreptitiously while I waited for my order. Warm jazz was playing. Two well-dressed women were sharing a falafel salad, their feet nestled among oversized bags from Liberty and Selfridges. Behind them, past the familiar branded stickers on the shopfront, you could see Jermyn Street burning. As the police chased the black bloc past the windows, I sucked down the scalding liquid and tried to stop my hands shaking, making a mental list of how many of friends had been hospitalised or arrested. The shoppers continued to gossip, oblivious. Across the road diners briefly stood up from their meals, snapping pictures on their smartphones of kids charging down Piccadilly with flaming Union Jack flags and placards that read: 'Where's my future?' London has always been two cities, but now they are tearing apart, and the wound is red and inflamed.
Two days later, I take my friend, still shaken from his encounter with the law, to the launch of the Orwell Prize at a legal firm on Fleet Street: a glittering set of offices high above the city. We wear name cards and nibble at salted peanuts, and talk to a lot of important people who write about politics for a living. We listen to a genteel debate, sitting down a little stiffly because our legs are covered in baton bruises from the scuffles in Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly. We walk home by the river, smoking.
