As the two shots rang out in Derry's city centre on Saturday afternoon, Mr Mitchel McLaughlin was giving a television interview on Butcher Street and commenting how he believed the RUC had done a good job in marshalling the parade.
Seconds later dozens of people stampeded around the corner past the Sinn Fein chairman and the camera crew, who held their ground. "They're using plastics," shouted one woman as she fled from the Diamond. They weren't; they were live rounds.
Two men in sweatshirts and jeans approached the politician. "A copper was getting attacked by the kids and another shot into the air to get them off," said one. Mr McLaughlin's expression became grave as he turned to walk towards the scene.
A wall of riot police had formed, as it had already earlier that day. The RUC moved in armoured cars to push the young protesters back down Shipquay Street.
I was beginning to get more confident around the intimidating lines of armoured cars and riot police. The sight of a 10-year-old Celtic supporter throwing a stone at the windscreen of a police LandRover, retrieving the same stone and throwing it a second time could well have helped me there.
I couldn't help feeling that the RUC should have been armed with wooden spoons rather than live ammunition. Perhaps even a few mini-Mars bars or sherbet dips might have helped appease the rioters, many of whom could still have had Communion money left in their Post Office accounts.
The Diamond witnessed the strangest moments of what for me was a strange day generally. As the main parade passed through, bandsmen turned their heads sharply in military fashion to glare in disdain at the young protesters.
Standing in the press enclosure, which was directly between the two sides, one could not help feeling slightly paranoid as 60 young men lowered their flutes, turned their heads and scowled not at you but through you. As the march continued, it became evident that the more hoop ear-rings the members of a band had the more menacing they were. It was these bands also that tended to have a rather frantic bass drummer, lathering up a sweat as he pounded out the marching beat.
For the marching Apprentice Boys in their crimson sashes and bowler hats, it seemed to be very much a personal decision whether or not to curl their top lip in disgust at the juvenile Bogsiders. Some marchers were highly dignified, others pointed umbrellas at the Catholic children.
An elderly marcher wearing pristine white gloves pointed his finger as if aiming a gun at one nationalist youth who climbed a lamp-post in an attempt to attach a Tricolour to it.
As time passed the atmosphere became more heated. Members of the loyalist crowd jeered the police, and The Sash was sung fervently by those lining the route. When the missiles began flying journalists were again caught centre-stage.
By the time the march had finished, stones and plastic bottles had become glass bottles. The RUC donned riot gear and moved into position.
My first glimpse of the Apprentice Boys' day of celebrations came early that morning with an open-air pageant that seemed more like an amateur production of The Pirates of Penzance than a re-enactment of one of the most pivotal historical events in unionist tradition.
In the early-morning drizzle the swashbuckling sword-bearers and men in tights could have come straight from a period drama. But the determined cries from the cast of "No Surrender" reminded you that this wasn't just pantomime, this was political.
After a wreath-laying ceremony at the Cenotaph, the parent clubs moved to their Service of Thanksgiving and the crowds began to assemble for the main procession. Some had come with deckchairs and flasks, others grabbed a vantage point while still carrying their shopping bags. The sun began to shine and the excitement began to grow.
Over on the Protestant Waterside the streets smelled of burgers and beer as the fast-food stalls fed the thousands who had arrived from all over Northern Ireland. "Burgers and chips, is that loyalist food?" asked a bemused Portuguese journalist.
Stalls selling Union flags and unionist paraphernalia did a roaring trade. "Orange and Proud of It" and "The Pope's a Darkie" were some of the tunes available on cassette for the evening's singsong.
A large banner commemorating the third siege of Drumcree was mooted as a bargain for £7.50. Crossing the Craigavon Bridge, the main parade received a rapturous welcome from the crowd on Ferryquay Street.
Mr Jimmy Gallagher (82) came from Belfast for the day to watch the "honourable men" march in Derry. As bands from all over the North marched past, Mr Gallagher nudged me and pointed out bands from towns that had been hit by IRA bombs.
"Banbridge, that was only last week, no reason at all for it. There's another, Markethill, and another, Portadown." "How would you like a big bomb in Dublin?" he asked playfully and nudged me again.
Clare Murphy is a Dublin journalism student on work placement in the Irish Times Belfast office as part of her MA course at Dublin City University