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