Today has been a funny day. Alerts here and there. A shooting in Stockwell. A fortnight ago, the activity was contained in a day. This week, it bled out into the following day, and is likely to continue for a few days yet. The faces of four wanted would-be bombers glared at you from every copy of the Evening Standard on the way home. We know what they look like, but not who they are or where they are. The hunt is on.
Yet, somehow it feels distant from me. It’s on the TV. It’s happening in tube stations a distance away from me. It’s off camera, and reported. It feels like a movie, because it’s barely touched my life today. Life went on: writing, editing, talking and blogging. I commuted to work and back. I went to Oxford Street shopping at lunchtime, and it was packed.
Yet, elsewhere, there’s a struggle going on. A hunt. A flight. And, unlike a movie, lives really are at stake.