May Day 2002. The International Workers' Day. Strange concept really, strange celebration. Makes me think of tanks rolling through Moscow on parade, on black and white television, as a child. My grandfather telling me how he had never spent a day unemployed.

An email from a friend earlier today tells me how he was Fed-exed his notice of redundancy. Another casualty of an old economy having drunken sex with new technologies. Unprotected.

From indymedia UK I learn that the cyclists of critical mass are out across the city. From my window on the borders of east london, the sun is streaming through clearer than any media.