Never underestimate how far someone will go to exploit a vulnerability. I was sickened by the e-mail chain letter which was being distributed, apparently from the Metropolitan Police, explaining that there was an attack imminent on the tube and an official announcement would be made shortly. "Please pass this on to as many people as you know who use the Underground," it suggested. Worried people forwarded it, of course. It got so bad that the police had to respond publicly to the e-mail saying it was bogus.
Aki and I also made the journey to King's Cross station, where a makeshift memorial had come into being.
A victim in a terrorist attack is not chosen, they are simply at the wrong place and the wrong time. Seconds can mean the difference between life and death. I felt that it was important to show that you acknowledged those who had lost their lives in the perverse lottery of the July 7 morning commute.
When I was at the memorial, however, I instead felt that I was intruding on grief. You find yourself surrounded by flowers and notes from loved ones, pictures of the deceased and desperately hopeful notices for the still missing. You might like to think you're sharing some kind of common experience, Londoners together, but the experiences of these people are not yours to endure.
Aki and I placed our flowers and departed.