On Saturday afternoon I stood outside Scotland Yard as the national march came towards us, and tried to count how many times we had been out on the streets this month.
Seven events and protests. Ten days. 7/10.
Nobody planned it. We knew October would be heavy. We did not know it would arrange itself into the date that broke us.
Three years ago, on the night of October 6, I was working at my pub in London. I woke up the next morning to a different world.
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