The Royal Mile, Edinburgh, Scotland

Freeze the scene at the march, just for one second allow surrealism to triumph. Police horses and riders paused, anarchist chants silenced, complete stillness as feet wait before falling to the cobblestones. Now that silence wafts though the hordes of protesters there are no distractions to keep me from talking about topics that I was at first tempted to ignore.

I admit that I was socially compelled to march, eager to show my compassion and attempt to woo members of the opposite sex with my stories. As I travelled on the train however, I thought of places I had already been, people I had already met and causes I would support by being there and I began to feel somewhat selfish for my previous motivations, although not enough to stop them I am ashamed to say. My consolation is that when I did talk about my travels and the people I had met, I did not dumb down their struggle, did not hide the more uncomfortable facts. As my mentor Steve Nelson once said “Feel Guilty”.


Children hobbling from lack of a leg, orphans dragging water from a well so I could have a drink, families that opened their doors in kindness, these people live in material “poverty”. They have harboured, befriended, relied and doted on me, people who will never know I was marching in part for them for them, for a world in which life could become slightly easier for them and slightly harder for me.