In the instant on the platform as the train braked to a stop, I had to decide which carriage to step into. I chose the one with lots of blonde women. When a man got off later, I glanced at the spot where he'd been sitting, in case he'd left a bomb.
After a couple of stops, I forgot about being scared. Millions of Londoners must have felt the same way yesterday when they went to work.
In Covent Garden, we saw The Producers. Gaiety ruled. Who knew Hitler could sing and dance?
On the way home, a man got on the train with his little girl. He was showing her the tube map (Londoners teach their kids the tube map the way we used to teach ours the state capitals) and she said, That's the purple one the bomb was on. No no, he said. Don't say that word. She said it again. Incident, he said. Call it an incident. But he was laughing. We all were.
Then we got off, and in the lift was a photo of a missing person. John Downey, who didn't come home that night. And there were more flowers, outside Edgware.
