It's a complete fantasy to think that any of the causes on parade here today are at this point pressing enough to compel people to hurl themselves at riot police. But there are simply too many causes and the legitimate grievances have been lost in a confused and directionless general tantrum against the establishment. It is becoming clear that the only way this protest can get any satisfaction is through a kind of farcical simulation of a rage that isn't really there, and although only a tiny minority are intent on taking part in this, almost everyone is interested in witnessing it. This includes the press photographers and, I must admit, myself. Unfortunately, for the participants, for the press, and indeed for the readers of the press, that is the only real story on offer here. No one yet knows how far this will go - that it will result in many injuries and that Ian Tomlinson will die after being pushed to the floor by a policeman. But only a handful of people are dancing to the reggae music that has started up under the aegis of Architects and Engineers for 9/11 Truth. The police are already the main attraction and most of the crowd is at the edges of the cordon, facing out.

At that point, I saw something shocking and only later did I realise why. On the Bank's wall, off to one side, someone had written in chalk: "I wish I could write beautiful words, but I can't." Thousands of people had gathered in the city with no real purpose other than to emote and this was the sole trace of introspection I saw all day. The banners, if they were honest, would have read "No to introspection", or "Introspection is good bad". But here was not only honesty and introspection but a testament to the terrible impotence lying beneath the outward spirit of the protest. This was the great attraction for those who came without a firm political goal. If outsiders-bankers, leaders, the police, the media-can be blamed for all "bad things", then that allows for the lovely illusion that everyone on the inside possesses a Midas touch in all the arts of man. But in all the attempts at wit, courage, creativity and understanding, only here, in those few lines of chalk that saw through the illusion, was there anything golden. To that gentle scribe: if your irony was inadvertent, I beg to differ with your statement.

Around the corner at the "Climate Camp" outside the European Climate Exchange on Bishopsgate, the atmosphere is altogether more appealing. A large banner on the wall reads "End Capitalism - why not?" This protest will have no effect on capitalism and its only effect on climate change will be to remind politicians, as if they needed reminding, that climate change is our era's number one popular cause. But this is good, old-fashioned, hippyish fun - and why not? People are giving away home-made cakes and vegetarian snacks, singing and playing tambourines and maracas, and sitting on the floor in groups among the dozens of tents pitched in the middle of the street. Over by the relaxed police presence, a man whose T-shirt reads "God is too big to fit into one religion" is trying to charm a pretty blonde policewoman: "No matter what you project out to me, I see you as a beautiful, divine human being." His aim is a hug from her and all the kudos that would come with it, but he has no chance: "Trust me, you'll get bored of this long before I will." There's a silent consensus in the body language of the crowd that this man may not be a philosopher-king after all and it is this - a marginally more realistic sense of how wonderful they all are - that will keep the climate campers almost completely peaceful all night, even after they are unfairly subjected to the same uncompromising police blockade as the area around the Bank.