It's a slightly different story in Cairo, where a whole thirty-six days ago, I stood on Qasr al-Nil bridge and realised to my dismay I was suffering from heat stroke. Now is not the time for elaborate weather metaphors (God knows there have been enough) but I did wonder, on the day and in those that followed, if the gatherings on the anniversary of the 25th of January would have gone half as well if there hadn't been glorious sunshine from start to finish. This is not to belittle the Egyptian people or their convictions in any way - indeed, the demonstrations may have benefitted from a bit of rain, as a large number of those in attendance expressed concerns that there was far too much of a party atmosphere and the event's true purpose had been lost. Having spent a day among the crowds I couldn't quite agree, but understand where they came from. Then again, nobody wants a soggy banner.
I meet up with our friend from Aswan, Mostafa, at about midday. Mostafa is a media co-ordinator and lives in Zamalek, a relatively well-to-do neighbourhood in Cairo popular with expats, but staunchly maintains he is 'not a normal Zamalek resident' and that he lives on the converted rooftop of one of the district's fancier apartment blocks - much later, tripping over a cat in the process, I am able to confirm this. Mostafa is currently working on an all-Egyptian film festival that will be taking him to Port Said in the coming weeks. He is in his element today, stressing the importance of film and photography to the revolution - anywhere else in the world merely standing around snapping demonstrators might smack of detachment, insincerity and even pure self-interest, but here, the wealth of online documentation is seen as a crucial weapon against a restrictive regime. Between near-constant cigarettes and over a banana milkshake, he critically observes my battered four-year-old Canon and pronounces it severely in need of a clean.
Outside the packed and trendy Cilantro cafe, the square begins to fill at around half past one. Marches from each district of town, mainly organised over social media such as Twitter and Facbook, have been gathering since earlier this morning. Stepping outside into glaring sunshine, I am shocked by the numbers that have so rapidly converged on the square, easily more than I've ever seen at an Alexandrian protest - and this is just a fraction of the total number of people out today.
Below: the rally in Mostafa Mahmoud Square, including van blasting out slogans (one rider was sporting a V for Vendetta mask, which tickled me, though my attempt at an explanation was mostly lost on Mustafa), paper masks showing the faces of last year's martyrs, and a huge SCAF officer marionette that we spotted several times over the day.
Below: Nada, also from Aswan, and Maryam, a friend of Mostafa's - and her brilliant hat. Every few paces, we run into someone he knows (and some he merely knows of: below below below, celebrated poet Haitham Dabbour, and I didn't manage to get a picture but we also spotted Wael Ghonim, creator of the now-famous Facebook page We are all Khaled Said).
After a long period in the square, people begin to move. I've realised already there is no point trying to depict the true scale of the protests so concentrate, with a few exceptions, on running after individuals. That is as much as one can concentrate in a crowd this size on anything other than not getting lost.
A few minutes down the road, our demonstration runs into a group of equal size coming from the other direction. The noise is deafening. It's at this point Mostafa points out a pavement to the right where, this time last year, he was chased up a tree after taking photos during a pro-Mubarak rally. We also see three of the girls who volunteered at the Characters of Egypt festival last year. Of all the people to run into, I'm still not quite sure how that happened.
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