It was about 10pm. My boyfriend was curled up next to me, dozing quietly. The street was quiet, the night was dark and the TV was on, but muted. My duvet was calling.
And then the newsflashes started. Metropolitan Police had closed off London Bridge. I snapped to full alertness and the details came through; another van, another terrorist attack on the city I’ve adopted as home. I shook my boyfriend awake and we watched the news for a while, texting friends and family, offering our spare room for some friends of ours who might need it. In London, you go on- regardless of what happens.
London Bridge was one event too many, one of too many in a row- too many, too quickly. The absolute horror of the Grenfell Tower fire just days later- and then the most recent hate crime perpetrated against the Muslim community at Finsbury Park. It’s a cumulative sadness that pushes against everything you believe in. Anger and helplessness slide into the crevices. We become jaded and worn.
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