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.