At home, waiting, Sarah and Robert both swig cans of lager, peering at the portable telly balancing on a pile of books.

Robert says, skinning up, 'I don't know Sarah, when we're together I like talking to him about politics and art but I just don't think I fancy him.'�

Sarah nods, half listening. It was a good demo; she'd seen loads of mates she hadn't seen for ages. It was best when the business people had looked on, bemused, the women in dark tights and white trainers, the men drab and stuffy.

'Did you see those suits staring at us?'� she asks as Robert inhales and blows thick smoke towards the ceiling.

'I don't know whether I fancied him because he's black,'� says Robert passing her the spliff. 'Does that make me racist? I did wonder about his cock.'�

Puffing awkwardly, Sarah wonders just much colder the squat might get.

'Or maybe it's racist that I don't fancy him now?'�

Sarah knows her parents would hate this.

The footage of the march is the leading story on the news. Both whoop, hug, then talk with passion through the rest.

'The end justify the means,'� Sarah says.

Stoned, Robert nods.

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