Evening. W’s college, at the edge of Dartmoor.
Students smoking in small groups. The remnants of disposable barbeques. Spread blankets and a portable MP3 player pounding out Jandek’s Modern Dances.
This is his kind of political protest, W. says.
W.’s disappointed that none of his sport science students have joined the occupation. He thought he might have been able to turn them. He thought they might have ended up on his side, armed with cricket bats and hockey sticks. Hadn't he promised them extra credit, if they joined the revolution?
But his philosophy postgraduates are out in force, W. says. The last humanities students of the college! The brave three hundred, who will stand against like Leonidas's Spartans against the enemy army.
But there is no army. Only a lone security guard, sitting on a plastic chair.
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