I spent most of Thursday morning constantly checking to see if Chris or Jenny had updated, and thinking things like: "It's New Cross, right? Not King's Cross. Shit. I can't remember. But that's OK, because she was saying just the other day that she takes early trains, so she was almost certainly safe and sound in a room full of noisy young hooligans. But, ah fuck, what about the boy?"
I spent some time figuring out where Chris' office may be, based on MacUser contact info, and where I think he and Jenny live, based on previous mentions, and then what route one might take, based on my staring at a Tube map, and then Jenny sent me an e-mail to let me know that they are OK. I'm such a dork.
I am fighting the urge to write at length my feelings about Thursday's attacks. I worry that it would come out all wrong -- sappy and dumb; the written equivalent of a teddy bear wearing a "Support Our Troops" ribbon, complete with ridiculous "We are all British" sentiment. That feeling is there, of course -- very strongly -- and my extreme Britophilia almost makes me feel that I would be vindicated in writing it. By the end of the day, my jaw hurt from clenching it so tight to keep from tearing up at work.
I'm frustrated and upset, but it doesn't affect my desire to live in Britain. To that end, then, I will simply say this: Blowing up trains and buses does nothing. You can't break Britain. Almost 1,000 years of internal squabbling, facing off against the greatest militaries in history, economic and religious turmoil -- buses and trains aren't shit. Britain does not break.
I like this picture of Tony Blair. He looks about as angry as I feel.
I also like this picture of people escaping the Tube, which looks to have been taken on someone's camera phone. It's eerie and claustrophobic and they are having to avoid getting electrocuted by the third rail, but there they are -- in queue -- incredibly calm and patiently wandering to safety. It's beautiful.
On one bit of news footage I saw Thursday, there was a man with a briefcase moving through the scenes of chaos in that traditional indefatigable Londoner shuffle. He was clearly still headed to work. London doesn't stop for bombs.