Was going to propose this weekend. Had it all worked out. Nice little hotel I know by the sea. Romantic dinner tonight, bottle of fizz and then I was going to pop the question. Then this dozy lot go and organise a march and all leave is cancelled. Wouldn’t mind but there’s more of us than there are of them. Normal shift could’ve dealt with this lot and still have been back at the station in time for the football results. Then that new Inspector of ours pokes his nose in. Trying to make a name for himself. Wants us to kettle them between Carlisle Street and the old market. Contain them so they don’t kick off. Poor sods. They probably just want to exercise their democratic rights, shout a bit and then get home for their tea. Instead we’re going to keep them penned in for hours. We’ll all get frustrated. Then somebody’s going to lose it. Either one of us, fed up, is going to prod someone with his baton. Or one of them, equally as pissed off, is going to lash out with a flag pole. Before you know it the battle will have begun. Bloody democracy. It’s a pain in the backside.