There is something perfect in the arc drawn out by a parabola. From the sweep up, the hesitant pause at the top, and the gleeful descent back down, it always reminds me of how the universe works. Even from the dusty old days sitting in a classroom, not listening, not understanding, but appreciating that there was a simplistic beauty even in the symbols that meant nothing to my restless former self.

I am oblivious to the roar around me, my eye is following the bottle as it transcribes the perfect arc from release to impact. The comet-like tail spiralling around behind, the bottle itself slowly tumbling alone the line, the liquid inside seemingly solid. I lift my arm to cover my face as the crash of glass on metal ignites the homemade bomb, then return to watch the flames cling briefly before falling to the tarmac, trampled under the surge of uniformed men.

It wasn't a long hot summer, it wasn't a flashpoint winter. It was a creeping sore, a slide in values, a very middleclass revolt. Refusing to sit by and tut politely at the Way of The World, at the recent Turn Of Events. The dinner party chattering classes and their self-important capitalising mode of speech. But it grew, and spread. The usual adjitators caught the mood, fueled the passions of the restless, the lost and the forgotten. This strange group merged, bonded and grew. A revolution was born, different from all those that have gone before. But no less angry.

One act of vandalism, reported otherwise. One burning building, cheered and celebrated. One road blocked, impossible to ignore. One house lead to a street, a street lead to a town, a town to a city and a city to a country. No one spotted it, no commentator mentioned it, but it happened. We all saw it happening. We don't remember a starting point, but we all saw the endpoint. How many millions where there? How many billions more saw it on television? I was there, those final days, the final day. It doesn't matter how I got there, it doesn't matter how long I had been there, but I was there, watching home made bombs and streetfighting weapons fight the last of those whoe ruled us.

The Palace of Westminster, the seat of our government, burned for three days without respite. No one stopped the burning. There was no one with the will or cause. The crowds grew, the anger somehow dissapated. This was closure. People came to watch the end of...what? No one knew. There wasn't hope, but there wasn't fear. I only felt calm. Tomorrow would come, and with it, with it what? No one asked the questions, no one had any energy for whatever would come next. Something would come, be it better or worse. Either new, or old, but not the same. The flames by the Thames had decided that.

There were television crews, helicopters, bystanders and the whole world. An idea spread from somewhere. It was suprising how quickly we all slipped back to where we came, but with a feeling of release. It didn't feel like freedom, we were already free, it was the feeling of escaping a strong grip. Where the idea came from, who knows? Read any of the books, and you will get the same urban legends trotted out over and over. I don't know who came up with it, but I liked it. Letting the people decide hadn't worked. Mob rule lead to a ruling mob. Letting the people decide didn't work. Citizen power lead to a powerful citizens. Letting the people decide didn't work.

A democracy of one.

Chapter Three