One year later

One year ago today, I made my way from the house in Kentish Town in the early morning, through Kings Cross, laden with luggage and there I was sat at Gatwick Airport in the departures lounge, sipping coffee, having lent a sympathetic ear to a friend who had recently ended an affair, called my cousin to wish her a happy birthday, waited to board a flight back home to see my family.

The departures board flashed with a delay to my flight, and I sat back. Tired, apprehensive and unexcited about the prospect of the 10 hour flight, I flicked absent mindedly through a magazine. Leaned over to check the text that had just come in.

"... have a great flight. All hell breaking loose in London. Something about a bomb..."

Thinking it was a joke, I didn't think anything of it. Then my phone beeped again.

"Are you okay? Tubes are down. Some sort of power surge"

And again.

"Where are you?"

There are no televisions in Gatwick, and as my gate was finally confirmed, I started to feel a bit of dread. Calling L who confirmed that a bomb had indeed gone off, not too far from his office and they had been instructed to stay inside.

I called my office and my colleague Mike kept it simple, told me all they knew. 4 bombs, strategically placed around London, had gone off. That was all. Everyone in my office accounted for.
I tried to reach friends, spoke briefly to a stunned Tony in France, left messages with Knickers to try to reach my parents, knowing my mother would turn on the news and be concerned.

That was the longest flight of my life. I think I cried silently for the majority of my flight, fellow passengers, the stewardesses unaware. Knowing the underground like the back of my hand, I could only imagine what sort of destruction a bomb could cause in that small a space. Thinking back to 911 and to what had happened. To London. To my city.

Touching down for a stopover in Calgary, and finally able to get the full report. Text messages from friends checking in. My uncle, forgetting when I was to fly, leaving a worried voicemail. Finally reaching my father, his voice breaking down the phone.

An hour later, touching down in Vancouver. Rushing through Customs, and being ushered into a holding pen. My luggage opened, searched. Questions barked, I think I answered in a whisper. "Yes, I packed my bags...I am visiting family, I am Canadian..." . Thrusting my passport back at me and waving me on.

My mother is emotional, talkative. She has been bending the ear of the journalist sent to cover the arrivals. The TV crew trains its camera on her, she mentions my job. As I make my way into the Arrivals, a flash, a camera following my mother to me. I am home. And all I want is to be back at work, with the TV over my head, the wires coming in. All I want is to know how my city is.

I forget all the media training I have had, mumble and murmur responses, trying to hide my face from the camera. I break off, stunned disbelief on my fellow passengers. Most of them hadn't heard until then.

I spent the evening without sleep, reading blogs and watching BBC World. Trying to get my head around what had happened.
The day before, I had taken a bus past Trafalgar Square to catch the tail end of the Olympic celebrations. I remarked to my father sleepily, that they had chosen the wrong time. That London was so strong, that something like this couldn't break its back.

The following day, I went down to Kits beach, bought all the newspapers I could get my hands on. Turned the pages, my picture in black and white staring back at me. Images from the carriages, interviews with survivors and rescue teams. Sat and cried like my heart would break. I'm not sure my friends, nor my family understood why I took it so hard. I don't think I do either - I think because I could only watch it from afar. I wanted to be back there, wanted to be one of the thousands that poured onto the streets in memory.

When I flew back to London 2 weeks later, another bombing and confusion surrounding the shooting of an innocent man , I felt disjointed. Disconnected from the city that I loved. Riding the Thameslink past Kings Cross, there was nothing to suggest the violence that had marked it a few weeks prior. Walking past armed police and dogs and becoming much more aware of fellow commuters became a daily occurence. I had never liked taking the tube in summer, and so I stopped. Other than that, not much changed.

Although it took me a long time to get back into my old life, I had already made the decision that I would be returning back to Vancouver and to this day I know it has very little, if anything at all, to do with the bombings. I had been a few streets away when the Admiral Duncan was nail bombed, had learnt that bomb scares were a part of daily life.

Something inside of me had changed before then, I wanted to be part of my family again. It just took a little while for me to get there.

I have included some links to the stories I have been reading, there are some amazing voices out there.

Rachel North. Thanks to Pixel Diva who introduced me to her writing some months back.
Guardian Unlimited: Matthew Weaver and David Batty have recorded interviews with the survivors here.
Holly Finch
Mitch

July 7th is also the anniversary of the death of a very dear friend, who 13 years ago today fell asleep at the wheel of his car with 2 friends, who luckily survived. There are things that will always stay with you, Chad's death is one of them. It was the first time I have ever had to face my own immortality. At 19 we thought we were invincible.

I have lost a few other friends along the way, and it never gets any easier.