I suppose many people today are remembering where they were when they heard about the first plane hitting the twin towers. I was in the office I shared just off Oxford Street with three other journalists. One, a New Yorker living in London, was in a state of extreme shock. Without fast internet connections (we were all on dial-up) we went to the pub on the corner where in the company of a lot of others working in the area, we watched the images, on a large screen television normally given over to sport or MTV. Everyone was more or less mute.
I went home to north London early, getting the underground to my local stop, aware of the hush that had fallen, walking through the park with a powerful sense of everything having changed in ways that we did not yet understand. Struggling to take it in.
I felt grateful that my children were at home, my husband in the country and not travelling as so often.
I am grateful still for the safety of those I love.
I was profoundly moved today by seeing people speaking the names of loved ones they had lost, at the ceremony in London. Laying the long-stemmed white roses, that no doubt had the thorns removed, while the September trees tossed their green heads all around.
The dignity of the relatives and friends, and their pain, reminded me what it is to be human, mortal and brave.