...(as it is known, rather than 11/9) happened, the first thing I did on getting home (I was in Australia at the time) was book a long flight. While the rest of the world mourned, I felt nothing other than the need to get out and experience life.
The morning after
7/7 (the date is the same in any variance of English), I got on a bus and got on with things. Maybe because I knew that had I not been running late the morning before as I made my way to Arsenal tube station, I could have easily been on the train that was bombed between Russell Square and King's Cross.
Or maybe it was because I was a Londoner.
Today - after watching the country being torn apart for the last few days - I sit home and lament.
I am getting too old for the destruction of the world and mankind.
There are things that I want to be out doing today, but I'm not doing them.
I know that good comes from bad...
Indeed, all one has to do is look to my first sentence above: without said long flight (to the UK), I would have not found myself living in this country 9 years, 7 months and 18 days later.
Yes, this country which has broken my heart a little bit more time and time again.
Especially this week.
But it is home.
...but while I would like to be able to focus on
I did not realise how despondent I was feeling until putting it into 140 characters last evening (about football today): "It's strange how unimportant it feels after the last few days. I am feeling somewhat scarred.".
After that, I was in and out of tears for some time, as I thought of all the horrible things the world does to us.
And after a very restless night's sleep that resulted in being hardly able to drag myself out of bed until nearly 11am, my first 'public' thought this morning was: "I am sad that the last week of sadness has drained me of enthusiasm for this day I've been waiting for. No joy, no motivation, no football."
I got out of bed today, and will get myself out this funk. Maybe in an hour, maybe in two days.
Until then, my sofa is my haven.
