I predict a riot.

The RF are back at home, but home has moved to a new flat. The view from our kitchen window has the castle and Princes Street gardens to the left, and the Forth glittering off to the right. The view from my bedroom window has a brothel.

On Saturday Dave and I met up with Jeff, Devon et al for the Make Poverty History march. As per usual, the Socialist Workers bandwagon-jumped with alacrity (seriously, what's their problem with single-issue causes? Don't they realise they dilute the message when they demand the dismantling of the world's dominant trading system when the march is about a simple set of sensible, achievable aims?) and talking to a few of them, it struck me that most had cut-glass Kensington accents while the good old-fashioned capitalists selling whistles and flags were broad Glaswegians.

Anyway, we made poverty, and then sobriety, history.

On Sunday I met up with Martin (and Alice, for the first time) for a mid-afternoon hair of the dog and then it was back to the flat for a roast dinner, Trivial Pursuit and an irresponsible amount of wine and whisky. Good, if hazy, times.

Last night, as I finally made a break to escape from take-aways and sponging food off my flatmates, I found Sainsbury's blockaded by riot police. Sponging it is then.