The
office has just emptied, as though in a
vacuum. I went to the toilet, then emerged to
discover myself in a small business version of the
Marie Celeste. Coffee lies on desks, still warm.
Pringles tubes sit out in the open, asking to be
raided. Eating stolen food, I ring the
secretary to ask what's going on. Apparently,
Gordon Brown has just announced that
petrol tax will not be cut, ever, and the protesters can go
fuck themselves. Of course, he used
political terminology, but that was the gist of it.
The result? The
blockade starts again, at 12.00 hours (
right about now). Seconds out,
Petrol Crisis round 2. Everyone in the office has
fled to panic-fill their tanks. They'll spend the rest of the week
criticizing people who do this.
I walk to work. I get to be
smug bastard. Nothing beats that glow.
Looks like this latest one may be all
hype, a vapourware blockade. Even if that is the case, they've already
shut down all the petrol stations in
Stroud due to dangerously
large demand and/or lack of petrol.
Still, I gained an hour off work;
I'm not complaining.