Interesting times. Three days after the attacks, we find ourselves in King's Cross, the 3 of us. Not rubbernecking the extraordinary variety of emergency vehicles - tho' Spike certainly did fill his boots in that department, and he was thrilled by the non-stop sirens, too. Nor did we go to lay flowers, but I did get a chance to walk around the designated spot, reading the sympathy messages from all over the world, under the jaded gaze of the tv cameras. One that stood out made reference to one of the 'claims of responsibility': 'Burning With Fear? Not Bloody Likely'.
Speaking for myself, 'Smouldering With A Mix Of Resentment and Anxiety' would be quite near the mark.
No, we were in the blighted zone as we'd been sent to StPancras' Hospital to have S's chest checked out, after he had an allergic reaction earlier in the day, probably to the high pollen count, that rendered him breathless and wheezy.
As it was Sunday, 85 degrees and the hospital couldn't dispense the stuff we needed, yours truly endured a stinky bus journey from King's Cross to Marble Arch to fetch medicines, not before drinking in the atmosphere of dread and defiance at the former. By the time I got home at 8.30 I was thoroughly pissed off with the NHS, the weather and Al Qaeda, in that order.
My sister's father-in-law died Saturday night, after a short but devastating illness. So I'll be heading to Liverpool this week for the funeral. I could stay with my other sister, but I'd have to kip on the couch. Otherwise, it'll be a case of booking a room. I'm already a confirmed exile - I left Liverpool to go to college 20 years ago this autumn - but the idea of not having a family base there anymore is quite unsettling.