London, 8 July 2005 – the Day After.
It felt really important to get into work that day, to show that our lives were not going to be disrupted by terrorism. Many of my colleagues clearly felt the same, as despite the ongoing public transport chaos, and the fact that we could all have worked from home if we wanted to, the office was perhaps even busier than usual for a Friday in summer.
But our minds were on things than accounts and spreadsheets and, eventually, a number of us sloped off early to a nearby pub. We needed to be with each other, doing something normal, not being afraid.
As the tipsiness kicked in, the British stiff upper lip started to falter just a little, and we began to express how we really felt about the previous day’s events.
I don’t think I’ve ever spent a more sombre night in the pub, or a more therapeutic one.