I spent Sunday with Simon on the Bridge.
After four and a half hours of bridge blocking, most people had gone home; we got on our bicycles and shouted farewell at each other's backs as we rode off in opposite directions. Once we'd parted, though, I thought better of going home, and returned to the bridge; I had my polaroid camera with me but hadn't taken any pictures all day.
As the police advanced in a line towards the 20 or so people who were still 'dying' on Westminster bridge, I took a shot of one of them with the clock in the background, and handed it to him with the words: "This is so you remember where you were and what you were doing on the day the NHS died. Don't forgot it when you can't afford to take your kids to hospital anymore."
That would have been a nice moment, but sadly my polaroid camera is so old and has been kept in such weird, damp places over the past couple of years that the image didn't develop properly. The officer laughed at me and said, 'your camera's broken, mate, it doesn't work'. I told him this was not a day for laughter, but a day for sadness. He didn't seem to understand...