I'm not really sure how it goes and I'm too tired to look it up, but it's something about how the act of watching changes the thing being watched, so you can't be sure if what you're seeing is what is. Or something.
I found it difficult to judge the mood of the people forced to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge rather than take the subway last night, because there were other factors contributing the to difficulties of getting thousands of pedestrians and cyclists over the East River.
Like the Maginot Line of TV trucks and film crews blocking the pedestrian crossing from City Hall Park onto the bridge. Like the crews that were set up on the walkway itself, complete with lights, cameras and trailing cables, blinding walkers and congesting the flow.
I don't know how or why, but my body clock is synchronising in a sick and twisted way with our strike schedule.
Normally, every morning, I wake up at about 5.30 or 6am through thirst or lack of blankets. I check the time, feel relieved, sip some water, heave some insulation out of the wound-up knot of bed coverings that Krissa defaults to when she's asleep, and doze happily off again.
For the last two days, this regular moment of peaceful and relaxed semi-awakening has metamorphosed cruelly into our Actual Wake Up Time. Yesterday I woke up because I was cold, pulled a blanket over me, and then the alarm went off. This morning I woke with a half-headache and looked at the clock. I had just enough time for a quick burst of despair before the alarm went off.
So... it is New York's second day without subways and buses, one report put the cost of police overtime at $4.4 million a day. Apparently the negotiations got stuck on a pensions issue that would have cost the city $20 million over three years.
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