G20 at Canning Town Station They cluster in 4s and 5s decorated in fluorescent yellow, truncheons dangling at their sides. Hopping from foot to foot they scan crowds, stopping dreadlocks and patchwork coats to search bags, empty pockets look suspectingly at sets of keys and full canteens as dangerous weapons. My nose ring mustn't be big enough, my curled hair not the matted mess they'd expect from a protesting terrorist so they look past me to stop pink hair, no passing thoughts that my bulging bag may be filled with bombs and gasoline.