The word goes round the crowded balcony at South Africa House. A light drizzle makes the scene quintessentially English.
Pigeons lift into the air on each clap of percussion.
Up on our balcony, Ken Livingstone watches them grimly. Barbara Castle is on a chair, hunched under an umbrella. My gaze is fixed on one short figure leaning on the parapet. She stares down at the square with a tired but contented expression. Or any of us.