Women are tired - and we don't know how to change things anymore
Standing by the bandstand, the first thing I noted was the scent; of candles burning, of flowers and a hundred different perfumes.
Having walked the long muddy pathway through Clapham Common, flanked by a gentle flow of masked women, I’d reached the epicentre.
Cards and flowers overwhelmed the site and for a second I was reminded, jarringly, of Princess Diana’s funeral.
In the air was a sense of quiet sadness, but also catharsis: to be doing something – anything – after days of impotent frust
