To the ExCeL centre, to see history being made. Actually it wasn’t quite that easy. The day began like a novel as we were bundled off a “dirty” bus in a godforsaken car park in Peruvian Wharf, East London, so named because this was where they used to unload the guano. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

We clambered on to a “clean” bus (spy-talk for security-cleared) and were driven through a landscape like Mars with litter. We got off this bus and were directed on to another. Eventually, we staggered into the grievously misnamed ExCeL, slightly triumphant to have made it this far.

When I was growing up I used to read a history series called I Was There. Well, finally I was there but it seemed that history was actually 200 yards down the hall in the Red Zone. I, as a Yellow Zoner, was banned. Still, if journalism is the first draft of history, then this, written in a stiff breeze in this hangar-like place, is at least the first draught.

The best way to explain the ExCeL centre is to imagine a giant tin can on its side. We could not see out, which, given the view, may not have been such a bad thing. In the Yellow Zone we were visited by Red Zoners whom we treated like demi-gods, for we were desperate for news. When Alistair Darling came over he was mobbed. Yes, I know, that is unbelievable, but that is a bit of history that I saw.

As the day wore on, everyone began to talk about an extra trillion dollars for the world. No one seems to know how this is possible when we’re all so broke, but such questions were viewed as idiotic.

The Canadians missed the first “family photo” (I can’t believe anyone noticed) and Berlusconi the second. Did this happen at Bretton Woods? How can they save the world if they can’t even take a group photo?

Peter Mandelson, slumming it in the Yellow Zone canteen, when asked what it was like to be at the fulcrum of history, said: “The soup’s nice.” It was, for the record, watercress.

The person everyone was talking about, though, was Sarko. He was late for dinner the night before because he had to “freshen up”. Now the rumour was that his make-up artist was marooned outside. Quelle horreur! He was having to make history without his slap! No wonder he was in a mood.

At 3pm we heard that the communiqué, which everyone called “the text”, was nearing completion. Gordon’s moment of glory — the apex, the acme, the summit of his political life — was set for 3.30pm. Then, suddenly, Sarko moved his press conference forward, to clash with Gordon’s. Why? “He’s in a hurry,” a spokesman said. Well, he was in a something.

It all felt slightly out of control. In the end Gordon strode on to the stage at 3.56pm with the words: “This is the day the world came together.”

Well, not quite, For next door, Sarko had started his version of his G20 triomphe (it was his idea, as you may know). Gordon was measured, dignified, a bit dull. Sarko was embullient, sharp and highly entertaining. I ran between the two. History had been made, but who knows whose story it will be? I was there and I can confirm this at least: the soup was nice.

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