Yesterday night was picnicking in Ruskin Park until just before it closed at sundown: 9pm according to the internet, but we were still folding up blankets at quarter past. I watched the sun setting behind trees, becoming more and more pink, and I thought, if I had a better phone I would probably take a photo and post it. (Other places I sometimes think about Instagram: on roofs, and anywhere where something apparently important is happening that I accidentally stumble upon). There was too much food and eventually I felt sick just looking at it, while the boys played at launching a tennis ball as high up into the sky as possible, pretending it didn’t hurt when they caught it. I drank an ungodly mix of Pimms in a can, Corona and rose wine and slept in late. This morning in Brixton there were the crowds for the Olympic Torch, hanging around behind barriers, mostly teenagers off on their school holidays excited for something to do, officials in neon yellow jackets punctuating it all. The torch was going to come through the space in front of the Ritzy cinema; the last time I saw big groups there was the day the riots started last summer. The air felt different this time, nothing imminent. On the tube two women on either side of me got excited: “It’s that man, you know… My mind’s gone blank!” and I was too busy reading Falling Man to pay too much attention, but on my way off at Oxford Circus there was Ed Milliband, an Olympics badge on his lapel. He gave me a tiny hint of a smile when I looked directly at his face. I suppose that’s what politicians are wont to do.