‘Spread out, people, and slow down.’ The marshal ran alongside the footpath, bellowing and sweating into his loudspeaker. I slowed my pace. My throat was scratchy from yelling, and my lips felt desiccated. I should have brought another water bottle — one that I could actually drink from.

At the next set of lights, another police blockade waited with some media folk. A tall brunette reporter in a navy sports coat and fitted slacks scanned the marchers with an intensity akin to a cat monitoring its prey. She looked at me and then away. Shame, I thought. She was cute.

Then, after the intersection, a hand grasped my elbow lightly — it was the journo. Her dark fingernails rasped against my skin, giving me a tingle that followed my nerves all the way to my armpit. She looked over the top of her sunglasses at me, and her lips parted. I felt seduced, even though I knew she was just doing her job.

‘Would you mind saying a few words about the march? About what Australia Day means to Aborigines?’ she said, letting go of me. ‘I’m with the Tasmanian Herald.’ She took a notepad from her coat pocket and flipped it open.

‘Sure,’ I said. I relayed my opinions as she took notes. I babbled in my nervousness. When the loudspeaker came near, she leaned in close and I spoke into her ear. Strands of her hair blew into my mouth, and I tasted raspberries. She moved on, then, to the mother with the snotty pants. I felt a twinge of jealousy, but it faded fast as I remembered what I was planning to do.

‘Go home, ya fucken wankers!’

Two teen boys and a girl with heavy make-up sat on the steps outside Franklin Square. The one who had called out had a skateboard resting across his knees.

‘You go home, fuckwit. Back to Gagebrook,’ said stiff-legged Jack, referring to the rough suburb on the far side of the river. He was by my side again, and we were cutting through the square, on our way to Parliament House. The teen’s rant trailed off behind us.

Stiff-legged Jack hobbled forward at a surprising pace, unperturbed by the young hecklers. He raised the megaphone. ‘Come on, you fellas. The fat cats’ll be able to hear us from here. Let ’em know what we think of Australia Day.’

The crowd booed. Someone yelled out, ‘Shame.’ The footpath became a bottleneck as the police blocked us from walking on the highway. Up ahead, the dancers and the kids holding the large Invasion Day banner started crossing, moving down toward Parliament House Lawns. The march had stretched out to almost a kilometer, and I was somewhere in the middle. The chanting had ceased as we walked across the highway, but as the lawns and the gathering crowd came into view, the loudspeakers sparked up again, and the progressing throng found their second wind.