Tuesday, November 08, 2005
It must run in the family
My three sons and me all have dogs. But the dogs aren't NORMAL.
My dogs for instance. They're the only dogs I've ever known who jump excitedly up at me every night, not to go out for a walk, like normal dogs, but because they want me to go to bed and leave them in peace.
My eldest son's dog thinks it's a draught excluder and insists on lying across doorways so that you have to step over.
My middle son's dog, a retired racing greyhound, thinks its done enough movement for a lifetime, and lies all day (mostly) on her bed.
My youngest son's dog goes in for skydiving, jumping off high walls whenever he can, or swimming in fountains if there is no wall.
My dogs for instance. They're the only dogs I've ever known who jump excitedly up at me every night, not to go out for a walk, like normal dogs, but because they want me to go to bed and leave them in peace.
My eldest son's dog thinks it's a draught excluder and insists on lying across doorways so that you have to step over.
My middle son's dog, a retired racing greyhound, thinks its done enough movement for a lifetime, and lies all day (mostly) on her bed.
My youngest son's dog goes in for skydiving, jumping off high walls whenever he can, or swimming in fountains if there is no wall.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Equality
From the Assimilated Negro
The Time I Got Arrested For Holding A DVD (Part 1)
So it was a fine summer day when I was coming out of my apartment building. I was heading to Blockbuster to return a DVD.
After walking a few blocks three plain-clothes NYC police officers approach me. They quickly make their presence known by getting presumptuous with my civil rights and forcing me against a fence. They search me while demanding information about something I know nothing about:
“What did you get from the store?”
“Let’s see what’s in the bag you have.”
“What is it you were shopping for?”
Unfortunately for me I had not been in a store, I was not carrying a bag, only the DVD I was returning, and I wasn’t shopping or planning to go shopping anytime soon.
So my answer was, “What the fuck is going on here??!!? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Meanwhile these guys are not acting like they’re actually curious about my response. No, they’re acting like they got the answers from god himself a few hours ago and the questions are merely a formality. After forcing me against the fence, frisking me pretty physically, and looking in every nook and cranny you can find on a DVD case, there’s now a crowd beginning to form on the street.
Undoubtedly spurred on by the lack of material evidence, they continue their informal interrogation.
“what were you doing coming out of that store?”
“what store?”
“look. You know what store. What were you doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just came out of my house and I’m going to blockbuster. This is my first time outside today”
The officers pause to consider this unexpected fact.
Meanwhile I’m beginning to piece it together. Next to my apartment building there’s a bodega, and very often bodegas are fronts for weed-shops (something I, of course, know nothing about, other than they may exist). Anyways, I figure these officers thought I was coming out the store instead of my apartment. I relay this revelation to them.
They are not eager to reevaluate their situation but they do eventually back off me a little. At which point I get a little more assertive in expressing my dissatisfaction. I sort of play to the crowd and talk about how a “black man can’t even return his DVD on time no more.” I’m jabbing at them, but nothing too inflammatory.
The officers are talking amongst themselves, presumably trying to figure out how they botched this situation up. They’re also telling me to calm down, which of course only gets me more fired up. They’re the ones in the wrong, I have full right to be causing a ruckus, plus my ruckus was fairly tame all things considered. The crowd on the street formed because of their actions, not mine.
After some more back and forth I eventually raise my hands, one of which is holding the DVD, and declare, “I can’t believe this is happening! This is ridiculous!!” I say it loud, but I’m quite certain that harsher, more threatening words have been used in similar scenarios. But apparently that’s not what the officer in charge thought, because upon hearing that he looked at me and then at the DVD case and said, “you’re threatening to assault a police officer.” He then tells one of his partners to cuff me and take me in.
In shocked disbelief, my hands are cuffed behind my back. My tone immediately changes from challenging to compliant. I apologize and say I got out of line. But the head guy is no longer listening. Still his order to take me in was so preposterous that a couple of his partners made an effort to verify that he genuinely wanted them to take me in. He did.
I was cuffed and taken to a minivan that was parked around the corner and down the block a bit. And that’s when this unfortunate misunderstanding evolved into an incredible educational experience ...
The Time I Got Arrested For Holding A DVD (Part 2)
By The Assimilated Negro
If you are joining us midstream, click here for the first part of the story.
So your friendly neighborhood TAN-Man is being taken to the van in handcuffs. And I can’t believe it’s happening, but I’m also thinking, “ok, well this sucks. But it can’t go too far. I mean I didn’t do anything, and everyone knows it. So they’ll probably let me go soon.”
Well not only was I not released, for the next couple hours I drove around in their unmarked van with tinted windows as they played Negro Roundup. These guys seriously just drove around looking for suspicious minorities, and by suspicious I mean, coming out of a store, or in my case coming out of your house carrying a DVD. They ended up with about seven or eight people in the van after stopping a good twenty people.
Adding danger to insult to injury (my wrists were hurting since the cuffs were so tight), the driver is incredibly reckless. He darts in and out of traffic at high speeds to get in position for swooping in on another unsuspecting victim. There are at least two occasions where I seriously fear we’re going to get hit by a car.
Throughout the roundup I initially tried to get out the situation by simply pleading my case. After all, I continued to remind the officers, “I haven’t done anything. Just let me out wherever and this whole misunderstanding could be over. There’s no reason for me to be here.” Time and time again the officers had to reconfirm the truth of my situation with each other. And time and time again they shrugged their shoulders unwilling to correct their mistake. The captain/lead officer who ordered my imprisonment was riding in another car, so I was stuck, at least until the roundup was finished and we went back to the precinct.
After it became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere, I decided to make my point by needling the officers and basically cracking wise about their jobs, lack of character, and cliché racist assholeness. The highlight here was when the driver, a Puerto Rican male who was shockingly unsympathetic to the blatant racial profiling, was discussing his daughter going away to a private school. Since I knew he didn’t think anyone in the van would know about private school, I was very quick to inform him, “I went to private boarding school, one of the best in the country, and while I would classify it as a positive experience overall, it clearly did not help in preventing me from being plucked off the street by racist pigs for no reason. You should make sure your daughter knows that for those of us who are ethnically challenged, assholes like you don’t take into account the pedigree of one’s education.”
This is when Officer Rivera started to dislike me in a more personal and proactive fashion. I would have thought officers are trained to handle verbal abuse, and they just ignore everyone who talks to them, but I clearly had gotten under this guy’s skin (pardon). He starts asking me about my job, and when I tell him, “freelance writer” he laughs heartily and informs me that really means “unemployed.” I tell him, “I’ve heard that line before, but if all of this is about you being upset about your job, I know a lot of white people who would love to hire an asshole of your caliber, and probably pay you more than the city does.”
All of this, as expected, got me nowhere in terms of my quest for freedom. But all my talking made it more and more apparent that I wasn’t supposed to be in this situation. Whenever I used a word with more than two syllables a palpable silence would fall over the van. My use of the word “accosted” became particularly noteworthy as the officers even asked me what “accosted” meant. Apparently the typical negro they pick up doesn’t complain about being “accosted.”
This in addition to my outfit, strap on flip-flops, black Capri pants (no wisecracks CopyRanter), and a shirt that says “I spent $200,000 on my education and all I got was this stinkin’ t-shirt,” all made me stand out from the minority mass. Soon they were telling me in hushed tones, “look, it’s clear you don’t belong here, just be quiet and you’ll probably be let go soon.”
*sigh*
So after being told that upon getting out the van and getting ready to enter the precinct I decide to play ball and be quiet. I get lined up, have my picture taken, and get my fingerprints taken digitally without a peep. Eventually the head officer in charge of my arrest arrives. I think surely I’m going to be let go now. Clearly I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m being a good negro, it’s time to release the innocent.
But the head officer never looked in my direction once. He informed the people who handle the administrative paperwork of all the charges for the various criminals they rounded up, and he left. Never to be seen again. I guess a long hard day’s work had come to an end.
After he left we were informed we would be placed in a holding cell, we would be strip-searched to verify we weren’t carrying any concealed weapons, and then we would be taken downtown to central bookings for processing. Well upon hearing this announcement, my Recalcitrant Negro personality felt obligated to return (and no I didn’t use the word recalcitrant with any of the officers).
I once again began declaring my innocence and telling any person in a uniform that I shouldn’t be there. Apparently, however, they hear this song a million times a day on the radio and basically tuned me out. When they escort me to my holding cell I tell them I refuse to enter because I’m innocent. They tell me that, “unless you want to be hogtied on the ground and physically forced into the cell, I should just go in.” I think about it, pausing to let them know I would actually consider being hogtied as a symbol of this injustice, and then eventually enter the cell. We go through the same thing with the strip search. Eventually we’re taken outside to wait for the new van that’s taking us downtown.
While outside Officer Rivera resurfaces and he still doesn’t like me. And funny enough, I still don’t like him. At this stage I feel there’s no point in holding back, they are clearly putting me through the system regardless, so I ask Rivera about his daughter again and he snaps.
He pushes me out of the line and spins me around so he’s positioned behind me. He grabs the cuffs and tightens them even more, and they were already on tight enough to be painful. He grabs my wrists and forces me to bend forward and in my ear he says, “say something more smart ass, talk some more shit and I’ll break your fucking wrists.”
And even though wanted to ask if I could get Clint Eastwood’s autograph, I immediately complied to his violent demands and said nothing more other than apologizing for getting out of line. The other guys in the roundup started asking him to chill out and say clearly there was no reason for this. Another officer eventually came out and got him away from me. I, of course, had nothing to say.
The van arrived to take us downtown and we all piled in. Officer Rivera didn’t come. But this experience was not over, I still had more to learn …
To Be Continued
Part 3/Denouement:
“The Tombs” are what they call the holding area downtown. And that’s where I was headed after leaving the precinct.
We drove down and basically spent the next 3-5 hours going through the criminal bureaucracy. Getting processed is essentially like going to the DMV, except there are few if any Caucasians in line, and instead of a license or ID card you get a ticket to jail.
After getting processed I was taken down to “the tombs.” And if I had any ambiguity or ambivalence about the racial reality of the situation, entering the tombs put the cold hard truth right smack in front of my face. There were four or five cells lined up next to each other, on both sides of the room. And each cell was filled with at least twenty young black males. I’d guess that just about all of them fit in that 18-25 age range.
Even writing about it now, a couple years later, my eyes well up a bit. It’s one thing to want to Kill Bill (Bennett) for questionable remarks. It’s another thing to see reports on racial discrimination in applying the death penalty. And of course it’s something else entirely to read about the genocide still going on in Africa. But the fact of the matter is it’s difficult for anyone, no matter the race, to give these events proper weight if they don’t enter the day-to-day reality of your life. But that’s exactly what happened for me when I entered the tombs and saw my people, saw myself, filling the cages that lie in the basement of the main courthouse building in downtown NYC. For me that’s when this whole event became a palpable life-changing experience.
My actual stay in the tombs proved relatively uneventful. Most of the stories I heard were about someone holding a joint, or blunt, or little bag of buddha and getting caught. Maybe some of them had done more, and were just lying about it. I don’t know. As we learned in Shawshank Redemption, everyone in jail is innocent. But I’m pretty sure some of them had to be telling the truth, and if so it’s clearly a poor reflection on NYC police priorities.
One note on the lighter side of things. It was amusing to watch an economy and marketplace form almost immediately after people were put in the cells. People snuck in cigarettes and matches, and they immediately were auctioned off at prices that reached upwards of $5 per cigarette at the height of the “cigarette bubble.” Incorporated into the marketplace were corrupt guards who were willing to look the other way at people smoking or trading cigarettes, if they were properly compensated with cash or cigs of their own. Gotta love America.
After a number of hours in the tombs I eventually was taken to another cell to wait to go in front of the judge. It was at this time I got to consult with an attorney provided by the city.
As luck would have it this attorney did not speak English well, and really had no understanding of my particular situation. Luckily I was steadfast about my rights and not being in the wrong, but others in a similar scenario may have been coerced into accepting a deal that wasn’t in their best interests.
At some time in the wee hours of the morning, I got in front of the judge. The attorney again tried to explain my options, but I couldn’t understand him. The judge ended up explaining to me that I would have the case expunged from my record if I did nothing over the next six months. There was an official name for it, but I forget it now. If I didn’t choose that option I would have to continue waiting in the cell. So I accepted that and was allowed to return home.
I would eventually file my complaints with the police. Though I don’t think they mattered. I would also eventually get a lawyer and file suit against the city. They would eventually settle, and I cleared 2K after lawyer fees.
To be honest, at 2K per night, I’d probably go through it all again. I could still use the money more than my pride and/or dignity. But regardless it was an eye-opening experience, one that altered my worldview forever.
THE END
Q&A session:
what was the DVD? - I’m amused that so many people have mentioned this. I run through a lot of DVD’s so unfortunately I no longer remember.
do you use netflix now? - yes I do. Although it wasn’t until much later when I got on board the netflix train. I reference my use of netflix in my review of “crash” and my post about The Negro Sir Anthony Hopkins.
were your raped/molested/sodomized? - No. Yes. No, well not during this incident...
CAST
TAN - innocent beacon of light, truth, and the American way.
Officer Rivera - asshole wannabe clint eastwood police dick asshole.
hundreds of young black males - the apparent scourge of society.
clueless attorney - clueless attorney #1
this has been a The Assimilated Negro production. All accounts and video footage courtesy of The Assimilated Negro
The Time I Got Arrested For Holding A DVD (Part 1)
So it was a fine summer day when I was coming out of my apartment building. I was heading to Blockbuster to return a DVD.
After walking a few blocks three plain-clothes NYC police officers approach me. They quickly make their presence known by getting presumptuous with my civil rights and forcing me against a fence. They search me while demanding information about something I know nothing about:
“What did you get from the store?”
“Let’s see what’s in the bag you have.”
“What is it you were shopping for?”
Unfortunately for me I had not been in a store, I was not carrying a bag, only the DVD I was returning, and I wasn’t shopping or planning to go shopping anytime soon.
So my answer was, “What the fuck is going on here??!!? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Meanwhile these guys are not acting like they’re actually curious about my response. No, they’re acting like they got the answers from god himself a few hours ago and the questions are merely a formality. After forcing me against the fence, frisking me pretty physically, and looking in every nook and cranny you can find on a DVD case, there’s now a crowd beginning to form on the street.
Undoubtedly spurred on by the lack of material evidence, they continue their informal interrogation.
“what were you doing coming out of that store?”
“what store?”
“look. You know what store. What were you doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just came out of my house and I’m going to blockbuster. This is my first time outside today”
The officers pause to consider this unexpected fact.
Meanwhile I’m beginning to piece it together. Next to my apartment building there’s a bodega, and very often bodegas are fronts for weed-shops (something I, of course, know nothing about, other than they may exist). Anyways, I figure these officers thought I was coming out the store instead of my apartment. I relay this revelation to them.
They are not eager to reevaluate their situation but they do eventually back off me a little. At which point I get a little more assertive in expressing my dissatisfaction. I sort of play to the crowd and talk about how a “black man can’t even return his DVD on time no more.” I’m jabbing at them, but nothing too inflammatory.
The officers are talking amongst themselves, presumably trying to figure out how they botched this situation up. They’re also telling me to calm down, which of course only gets me more fired up. They’re the ones in the wrong, I have full right to be causing a ruckus, plus my ruckus was fairly tame all things considered. The crowd on the street formed because of their actions, not mine.
After some more back and forth I eventually raise my hands, one of which is holding the DVD, and declare, “I can’t believe this is happening! This is ridiculous!!” I say it loud, but I’m quite certain that harsher, more threatening words have been used in similar scenarios. But apparently that’s not what the officer in charge thought, because upon hearing that he looked at me and then at the DVD case and said, “you’re threatening to assault a police officer.” He then tells one of his partners to cuff me and take me in.
In shocked disbelief, my hands are cuffed behind my back. My tone immediately changes from challenging to compliant. I apologize and say I got out of line. But the head guy is no longer listening. Still his order to take me in was so preposterous that a couple of his partners made an effort to verify that he genuinely wanted them to take me in. He did.
I was cuffed and taken to a minivan that was parked around the corner and down the block a bit. And that’s when this unfortunate misunderstanding evolved into an incredible educational experience ...
The Time I Got Arrested For Holding A DVD (Part 2)
By The Assimilated Negro
If you are joining us midstream, click here for the first part of the story.
So your friendly neighborhood TAN-Man is being taken to the van in handcuffs. And I can’t believe it’s happening, but I’m also thinking, “ok, well this sucks. But it can’t go too far. I mean I didn’t do anything, and everyone knows it. So they’ll probably let me go soon.”
Well not only was I not released, for the next couple hours I drove around in their unmarked van with tinted windows as they played Negro Roundup. These guys seriously just drove around looking for suspicious minorities, and by suspicious I mean, coming out of a store, or in my case coming out of your house carrying a DVD. They ended up with about seven or eight people in the van after stopping a good twenty people.
Adding danger to insult to injury (my wrists were hurting since the cuffs were so tight), the driver is incredibly reckless. He darts in and out of traffic at high speeds to get in position for swooping in on another unsuspecting victim. There are at least two occasions where I seriously fear we’re going to get hit by a car.
Throughout the roundup I initially tried to get out the situation by simply pleading my case. After all, I continued to remind the officers, “I haven’t done anything. Just let me out wherever and this whole misunderstanding could be over. There’s no reason for me to be here.” Time and time again the officers had to reconfirm the truth of my situation with each other. And time and time again they shrugged their shoulders unwilling to correct their mistake. The captain/lead officer who ordered my imprisonment was riding in another car, so I was stuck, at least until the roundup was finished and we went back to the precinct.
After it became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere, I decided to make my point by needling the officers and basically cracking wise about their jobs, lack of character, and cliché racist assholeness. The highlight here was when the driver, a Puerto Rican male who was shockingly unsympathetic to the blatant racial profiling, was discussing his daughter going away to a private school. Since I knew he didn’t think anyone in the van would know about private school, I was very quick to inform him, “I went to private boarding school, one of the best in the country, and while I would classify it as a positive experience overall, it clearly did not help in preventing me from being plucked off the street by racist pigs for no reason. You should make sure your daughter knows that for those of us who are ethnically challenged, assholes like you don’t take into account the pedigree of one’s education.”
This is when Officer Rivera started to dislike me in a more personal and proactive fashion. I would have thought officers are trained to handle verbal abuse, and they just ignore everyone who talks to them, but I clearly had gotten under this guy’s skin (pardon). He starts asking me about my job, and when I tell him, “freelance writer” he laughs heartily and informs me that really means “unemployed.” I tell him, “I’ve heard that line before, but if all of this is about you being upset about your job, I know a lot of white people who would love to hire an asshole of your caliber, and probably pay you more than the city does.”
All of this, as expected, got me nowhere in terms of my quest for freedom. But all my talking made it more and more apparent that I wasn’t supposed to be in this situation. Whenever I used a word with more than two syllables a palpable silence would fall over the van. My use of the word “accosted” became particularly noteworthy as the officers even asked me what “accosted” meant. Apparently the typical negro they pick up doesn’t complain about being “accosted.”
This in addition to my outfit, strap on flip-flops, black Capri pants (no wisecracks CopyRanter), and a shirt that says “I spent $200,000 on my education and all I got was this stinkin’ t-shirt,” all made me stand out from the minority mass. Soon they were telling me in hushed tones, “look, it’s clear you don’t belong here, just be quiet and you’ll probably be let go soon.”
*sigh*
So after being told that upon getting out the van and getting ready to enter the precinct I decide to play ball and be quiet. I get lined up, have my picture taken, and get my fingerprints taken digitally without a peep. Eventually the head officer in charge of my arrest arrives. I think surely I’m going to be let go now. Clearly I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m being a good negro, it’s time to release the innocent.
But the head officer never looked in my direction once. He informed the people who handle the administrative paperwork of all the charges for the various criminals they rounded up, and he left. Never to be seen again. I guess a long hard day’s work had come to an end.
After he left we were informed we would be placed in a holding cell, we would be strip-searched to verify we weren’t carrying any concealed weapons, and then we would be taken downtown to central bookings for processing. Well upon hearing this announcement, my Recalcitrant Negro personality felt obligated to return (and no I didn’t use the word recalcitrant with any of the officers).
I once again began declaring my innocence and telling any person in a uniform that I shouldn’t be there. Apparently, however, they hear this song a million times a day on the radio and basically tuned me out. When they escort me to my holding cell I tell them I refuse to enter because I’m innocent. They tell me that, “unless you want to be hogtied on the ground and physically forced into the cell, I should just go in.” I think about it, pausing to let them know I would actually consider being hogtied as a symbol of this injustice, and then eventually enter the cell. We go through the same thing with the strip search. Eventually we’re taken outside to wait for the new van that’s taking us downtown.
While outside Officer Rivera resurfaces and he still doesn’t like me. And funny enough, I still don’t like him. At this stage I feel there’s no point in holding back, they are clearly putting me through the system regardless, so I ask Rivera about his daughter again and he snaps.
He pushes me out of the line and spins me around so he’s positioned behind me. He grabs the cuffs and tightens them even more, and they were already on tight enough to be painful. He grabs my wrists and forces me to bend forward and in my ear he says, “say something more smart ass, talk some more shit and I’ll break your fucking wrists.”
And even though wanted to ask if I could get Clint Eastwood’s autograph, I immediately complied to his violent demands and said nothing more other than apologizing for getting out of line. The other guys in the roundup started asking him to chill out and say clearly there was no reason for this. Another officer eventually came out and got him away from me. I, of course, had nothing to say.
The van arrived to take us downtown and we all piled in. Officer Rivera didn’t come. But this experience was not over, I still had more to learn …
To Be Continued
Part 3/Denouement:
“The Tombs” are what they call the holding area downtown. And that’s where I was headed after leaving the precinct.
We drove down and basically spent the next 3-5 hours going through the criminal bureaucracy. Getting processed is essentially like going to the DMV, except there are few if any Caucasians in line, and instead of a license or ID card you get a ticket to jail.
After getting processed I was taken down to “the tombs.” And if I had any ambiguity or ambivalence about the racial reality of the situation, entering the tombs put the cold hard truth right smack in front of my face. There were four or five cells lined up next to each other, on both sides of the room. And each cell was filled with at least twenty young black males. I’d guess that just about all of them fit in that 18-25 age range.
Even writing about it now, a couple years later, my eyes well up a bit. It’s one thing to want to Kill Bill (Bennett) for questionable remarks. It’s another thing to see reports on racial discrimination in applying the death penalty. And of course it’s something else entirely to read about the genocide still going on in Africa. But the fact of the matter is it’s difficult for anyone, no matter the race, to give these events proper weight if they don’t enter the day-to-day reality of your life. But that’s exactly what happened for me when I entered the tombs and saw my people, saw myself, filling the cages that lie in the basement of the main courthouse building in downtown NYC. For me that’s when this whole event became a palpable life-changing experience.
My actual stay in the tombs proved relatively uneventful. Most of the stories I heard were about someone holding a joint, or blunt, or little bag of buddha and getting caught. Maybe some of them had done more, and were just lying about it. I don’t know. As we learned in Shawshank Redemption, everyone in jail is innocent. But I’m pretty sure some of them had to be telling the truth, and if so it’s clearly a poor reflection on NYC police priorities.
One note on the lighter side of things. It was amusing to watch an economy and marketplace form almost immediately after people were put in the cells. People snuck in cigarettes and matches, and they immediately were auctioned off at prices that reached upwards of $5 per cigarette at the height of the “cigarette bubble.” Incorporated into the marketplace were corrupt guards who were willing to look the other way at people smoking or trading cigarettes, if they were properly compensated with cash or cigs of their own. Gotta love America.
After a number of hours in the tombs I eventually was taken to another cell to wait to go in front of the judge. It was at this time I got to consult with an attorney provided by the city.
As luck would have it this attorney did not speak English well, and really had no understanding of my particular situation. Luckily I was steadfast about my rights and not being in the wrong, but others in a similar scenario may have been coerced into accepting a deal that wasn’t in their best interests.
At some time in the wee hours of the morning, I got in front of the judge. The attorney again tried to explain my options, but I couldn’t understand him. The judge ended up explaining to me that I would have the case expunged from my record if I did nothing over the next six months. There was an official name for it, but I forget it now. If I didn’t choose that option I would have to continue waiting in the cell. So I accepted that and was allowed to return home.
I would eventually file my complaints with the police. Though I don’t think they mattered. I would also eventually get a lawyer and file suit against the city. They would eventually settle, and I cleared 2K after lawyer fees.
To be honest, at 2K per night, I’d probably go through it all again. I could still use the money more than my pride and/or dignity. But regardless it was an eye-opening experience, one that altered my worldview forever.
THE END
Q&A session:
what was the DVD? - I’m amused that so many people have mentioned this. I run through a lot of DVD’s so unfortunately I no longer remember.
do you use netflix now? - yes I do. Although it wasn’t until much later when I got on board the netflix train. I reference my use of netflix in my review of “crash” and my post about The Negro Sir Anthony Hopkins.
were your raped/molested/sodomized? - No. Yes. No, well not during this incident...
CAST
TAN - innocent beacon of light, truth, and the American way.
Officer Rivera - asshole wannabe clint eastwood police dick asshole.
hundreds of young black males - the apparent scourge of society.
clueless attorney - clueless attorney #1
this has been a The Assimilated Negro production. All accounts and video footage courtesy of The Assimilated Negro
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Friday, October 21, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Art
I've not been painting recently. I have a RSI. My wrist and hand aches. I'm resting it. It's given me time to think about art. I do what I have termed Compart. This is painting using the computer and the Painter program.
When I tell people the picture has been painted on a computer, their admiring smiling face suddenly changes with a jaw drop and eyes glazing and a sudden loss of interest. I try to rekindle the interest by explaining and some of it comes back, but usually with less interest.
Why is this I ask myself?
It is of course because they don't consider art by computer real art, nor photographs for that matter.
Real art is considered by many people to involve some hand craft, some skill, which computer art they think (in ignorance), doesn't have.
Computer art has as much skill as painting in oils, though some of the skills are different, but the main debate is really: does art need to have been made with craft skill in order to be art?
My argument is no, it doesn't.
What makes a picture art is two main things
1. The choice of subject. The choice is the result of the 'seeing eye'
Claude Monet:
"It's on the strength of observation and reflection that one finds a way. So we must dig and delve unceasingly."
Pablo Picasso:
"Art is the elimination of the unnecessary."
"I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else."
"There are painters who transform the sun into a yellow spot, but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun."
2. The way we compose the chosen subject on our 'canvas', and how we have changed it in the process.
When I tell people the picture has been painted on a computer, their admiring smiling face suddenly changes with a jaw drop and eyes glazing and a sudden loss of interest. I try to rekindle the interest by explaining and some of it comes back, but usually with less interest.
Why is this I ask myself?
It is of course because they don't consider art by computer real art, nor photographs for that matter.
Real art is considered by many people to involve some hand craft, some skill, which computer art they think (in ignorance), doesn't have.
Computer art has as much skill as painting in oils, though some of the skills are different, but the main debate is really: does art need to have been made with craft skill in order to be art?
My argument is no, it doesn't.
What makes a picture art is two main things
1. The choice of subject. The choice is the result of the 'seeing eye'
Claude Monet:
"It's on the strength of observation and reflection that one finds a way. So we must dig and delve unceasingly."
Pablo Picasso:
"Art is the elimination of the unnecessary."
"I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else."
"There are painters who transform the sun into a yellow spot, but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun."
2. The way we compose the chosen subject on our 'canvas', and how we have changed it in the process.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Feeling better now
Today I took the dogs to my other favourite walk, driving through narrow lanes. Going round a bend I met a rabbit running up the road towards me. It suddenly realised I was the bigger, and turned and ran. Round another bend a Kite was taking off with some object in its claws, probably already killed. The weight made takeoff ponderous and it just missed my windscreen. Further along a grey squirrel scampered along the road.
I enjoyed the eventual walk much better than yesterdays. (See Old age 2)
I enjoyed the eventual walk much better than yesterdays. (See Old age 2)
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Old age 2
Whenever I take the dogs a walk to Loynton Moss, I have to drive along about a half mile of A road. This is the meeting point of so many differences in our society. No matter how I try to speed up my little Yaris to a reasonable speed (and attempt to get off the road before being a nuisance), I invariably end up with someone (is it always a BMW?) right on my tail. This part of the road involves a series of S bends, and double lines down the middle, so why they want to rub my bottom with their noses I don't quite understand.
Now is this BMW meeting Yaris?
Old man meeting young?
Country versus town?
Dogs versus iPods?
Are they irritated all day like me over this trivial meeting? Or is it forgotten in the next hold up just round the corner?
The answer of course is simple.
I could stick to my country lanes and walk somewhere else.
They could get up a bit earlier and then drive with more consideration
I suspect the real solution is far more complex.
And a lot of it has to do with how we view cars and car users.
Now is this BMW meeting Yaris?
Old man meeting young?
Country versus town?
Dogs versus iPods?
Are they irritated all day like me over this trivial meeting? Or is it forgotten in the next hold up just round the corner?
The answer of course is simple.
I could stick to my country lanes and walk somewhere else.
They could get up a bit earlier and then drive with more consideration
I suspect the real solution is far more complex.
And a lot of it has to do with how we view cars and car users.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Sir Tim Berners-Lee
There is an interesting interview of Sir Tim Berners-Lee on the BBC web site. He is the inventor of the World Wide Web and has some good things to say about blogging
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Poems written by 'Urban Grimshaw and the Shed Crew'
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's shit tips green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
In England's carbon monoxide seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our genetically modified hills?
And was Jerusalem cloned here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Dig of burning gold:
Bring me my Viagra of desire:
Bring me my Foil: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Milligrams of fire.
I shall not cease from Mental Flight,
Nor shall my Pork Sword sleep in my hand
Till we have trashed Jerusalem
In England's green and fucked-up Land
(Based on a poem by someone else because I'm thick)
Skeeter
Have you ever seen things that aren't really there?
Like giraffes with green and purple hair,
Or live mannequins, or cardboard streets,
Or little people with massive feet?
I've seen things you'd never believe,
Butane gas made my eyes deceive,
It took me to a different place
Where things were pretty, all dressed in lace.
I've seen statues move and come to life,
I've been chased through a maze by a carving knife,
I've fallen from trees, floated through time,
I've watched my oen hands shimmer and shine.
I've travelled right through to Heaven's station
On my holiday of hallucination.
Quite fantastic, but to my shame,
It made a good job of destroying my brain.
Kara MacNamara
Prison boy wrote home one day,
Found his true love gone away,
When he asked the reason why,
She answered him with this reply:
If you choose the honest life,
Surely I will be your wife,
If you choose the life of crime,
Prison boy do your time.
Late that night in his cell,
Prison boy rang the bell.
Screw came running to the door,
Prison boy was on the floor.
In his hand a note all red,
In his hand a note that said:
Dig it wide and dig it deep,
Plant red roses at my feet.
On my chest a turtle dove,
Tell the world I died for love.
Thieving Little Simpkins
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
The right side
The newspaper was divided into two columns.
Each column told a story of mass murder—one in London, one in Baghdad.
On the left side of the page, if your heart could stand it, you could read mini-biographies of some of the people known to have have been killed in the London terror attacks of 7 July.
On the right side, you could read about suicide bombers in Baghdad killing themselves and over 150 of their fellow countrymen, women, and children during one brisk and senseless weekend.
There were no biographies on the right side of the page.
Jeffrey Zeldman
Each column told a story of mass murder—one in London, one in Baghdad.
On the left side of the page, if your heart could stand it, you could read mini-biographies of some of the people known to have have been killed in the London terror attacks of 7 July.
On the right side, you could read about suicide bombers in Baghdad killing themselves and over 150 of their fellow countrymen, women, and children during one brisk and senseless weekend.
There were no biographies on the right side of the page.
Jeffrey Zeldman
Monday, July 18, 2005
Tension seeking?
The interview below mentions the distortions of the media, finding little relationship in the reported interview of her uncle in the News of the World, to that which was said.
I've read the article and it seems to me that interviews are purposely twisted to create tension, when most people are trying to do the opposite.
Are we right to allow newspapers to do this? Is this real democracy?
I feel that the media should be made to record every interview they print. If the interviewee protests that the written word is a distortion of the verbal one, the recording should be passed to an ombudsman for assessment. If a gross distortion is found heavy fines should be made.
This way we might gradually have a more truthful media?
I've read the article and it seems to me that interviews are purposely twisted to create tension, when most people are trying to do the opposite.
Are we right to allow newspapers to do this? Is this real democracy?
I feel that the media should be made to record every interview they print. If the interviewee protests that the written word is a distortion of the verbal one, the recording should be passed to an ombudsman for assessment. If a gross distortion is found heavy fines should be made.
This way we might gradually have a more truthful media?
The loving boy and murderous terrorist
The cousin of Shehzad Tanweer describes her pain and disbelief on learning that he was the Aldgate bomber.
Monday July 18, 2005
The Guardian
Eleven days ago I watched in horror and disbelief as, one by one, we heard of the four tragic explosions. I feared for the lives of friends and relatives in London.
The following Monday morning, I was boarding a London bus in defiance, just like thousands of other commuters across the city. On Tuesday, I heard something beyond imagination. Something that would test my community and shatter my family. One of the bombers was my cousin.
I had seen him days before the tragic event, but I hadn't seen what was coming. Shehzad Tanweer is remembered by his family and friends as a gentle, loving boy who always had a smile on his face. By those who lost loved ones in the 7/7 attacks in London, he is remembered as a murderous terrorist.
This has come as a terrible blow to the family. Not only do they grieve the loss of their son, but they will have to face the atrocities his name has been linked to.
Shehzad's parents taught him that violence didn't solve anything, and that violence is not accepted in Islam. My parents would always remind me about the meaning of the word Islam - peace.
I often heard Shehzad's mother reminding all my cousins about the meaning of the word when they got into arguments with one another, as young siblings do. But Shehzad grew into a calm and peaceful young man. Nothing could anger him. I cannot recall the last time I heard him even raise his voice.
I don't know why Shehzad did what he did. I've had many a journalist attempt to put suggestions my way. Was it because of the Iraq war? Was it the treatment of prisoners at Guantánamo Bay or the Palestine-Israel conflict?
I don't know.
I never discussed those issues with him. I'm sure he would have felt very strongly about all those things, just as most Muslims in Britain do. I certainly do. I believe the Iraq war was not justified. I believe the treatment of alleged war criminals at Guantánamo Bay is a gross misconduct of human rights that every citizen on this planet should be ashamed of. And of course, there should be a fair two-state resolution in the Middle East.
My beliefs are strong but I do not believe they are justification enough to kill innocent people. Whatever the reasons for Shehzad's actions, he took them with him. Nobody will ever have the answer, not even his family.
I have been disturbed by how the bombings have been reported in some parts of the media. I have watched how words have been twisted, strewn and bent into whole other shapes by parts of the media.
I was present at a meeting between Shehzad's uncle, Bashir Ahmad, and a reporter from the News of the World. I heard every word spoken be tween them. Three days later I read a conversation that did not take place.
The entire British public, including the families of the bombers, showed their unity in the two-minute silence that marked the one week anniversary of the terrible 7/7 bombings. Those who lost loved ones don't want to see any more lives taken by murderous fanatics.
And relatives of the bombers don't want to see any more of their children being used as the tools of somebody else's evil ideology.
Together, we are looking within ourselves, and our communities, desperately searching for ways to prevent this ever happening again.
The Sun branded George Galloway a "traitor" for questioning the role of the Iraq war in motivating Thursday's attacks. In doing so, they sent a perilous message to every disillusioned Muslim in this country. They made it clear dialogue is not an acceptable way to vent our anger at the treatment of Muslims across the world.
If you silence those who have grievances to air, what tools do you leave them with?
My heartfelt apologies go out to all those who lost someone in the attacks. If there was anything I could have done to prevent this, I would have done it. I know that goes for all my family. We didn't want to lose our Shehzad, we believe he was taken from us.
I have no doubt in my mind that Shehzad was merely a tool of somebody else's evil ideology. I am certain somebody got to him, and duped him. I will not rest until that person or group is caught and brought to justice.
· The writer's name has been withheld at her request
Saturday, July 16, 2005
London
I listened to the first night of the Proms last night, Tippett's Oratorio A Child of our Time. What an apt piece to play following the recent bombings. All about fanaticism. Lovely singing and some built in Negro sprituals.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
A victim's tale
Rachel, from north London was in the bombed carriage of the Tube train travelling from King's Cross to Russell Square on the Piccadilly line.
(Preferably read from the bottom up for a chronological order.)
THURSDAY 14 JULY 0927 BST
Last night I managed to speak to my parents. They had been teaching a painting course in Norfolk, and whilst we had been texting regularly, we had not been able to talk to each other.
They talked of their shock and sadness. It had been very difficult when they had to look after course students all day and evening, giving them little time to deal with the news of their eldest child being on the bombed train.
Later on, another man who had been on my carriage and found out about me from this diary managed to get in contact and we talked for a long time and agreed to meet for the silence tomorrow with some of the other victims.
My friend and neighbour Jane came round and cooked us sausages and we all sat in the garden feeling shattered. After she had gone I began to cry, properly, for the first time. I couldn't stop sobbing and shaking. John held me.
I wept for the poor people who had been standing behind me who had died and been injured. A hundred feet down in a narrow, dirty, smoke-choked dark tunnel, I had to leave them there, screaming and crying, dead or dying and I could not help them.
I wept with despairing anger at the men who had done this, how could they hate so much? How could they think this was glorious, or just?
I wept because I had been so afraid, and because I had survived, and I had walked away from the train and my fellow passengers had not.
Tears are in my eyes again now. It's almost more than I can bear.
I must get ready to go to Trafalgar Square to observe the silence with the other people from my train.
After we will go to King's Cross to lay flowers, then to a pub where I will meet some friends. And at 6pm we will go to Trafalgar Square again for the Vigil.
And I hope I and other Londoners will find some peace and resolution there, standing together.
THURSDAY 14 JULY 0930 BST
John and I were quiet, thinking of how I had got on the train with all the other people. We tuned to BBC Radio 4 at 8.50am, the time of the explosions.
We listened to people's witness of how they had been on the train, rescued people from the tracks, searched for the missing and how they had not been found. We were both in tears.
WEDNESDAY 13 JULY 1755 BST
So, the bombers were young British men, and they killed themselves along with their fellow passengers. I'm sad, but not surprised.
They killed Londoners and people from all over the world, including Muslims.
It is terrible to think about why they chose to do such a thing. I cannot imagine what it must be like to hate so much that you are willing to blow yourself and other people to pieces to prove it.
I studied Theology at University, and I know that the Bible, the Torah, the Koran all contain passages that can be interpreted to back up all kinds of personal and political agendas.
But I also know that all the major world faiths teach of the sanctity and value of life, of how love is more important than hate. I have had many messages of support from friends and strangers, of all faiths and backgrounds. And everyone has said the same thing: how sad they are, what a despicable criminal act the bombers performed, and how futile it was.
Bombing, hate, murder and evil happen all over the world. Here in Britain we are not immune from it. This is unutterably sad, but like everywhere else, we will pick ourselves up and go on. I don't want to meet hate with hate.
Hate feeds hate. I've had enough of it. I'm scared, but not that scared.
WEDNESDAY 13 JULY 1244 BST
I talked to a counselling service on the phone (work gave me the number) and then to my boss and we all agreed that taking a bit of time off would be a good idea.
I'm feeling very, very tired indeed and I'm still not sleeping very well. I am starting to cry at odd times. I will go back to work on Monday after I have had my stitches taken out.
It was good to have faced the Tube journey and to have got that over with, but doing so did make me remember the events of Thursday morning all over again and has made me realise how frightened, shocked and deep-down tired I still am.
I need to rest, rushing about trying to get better using sheer willpower isn't going to make my body heal any faster and it isn't going to make my mind heal any faster either.
So I am going to spend the day in the garden with my tomato plants and pots of flowers and the cat, being quiet.
Tomorrow I am going to Trafalgar Square for the two minute silence and I am going to meet up with Mark and his wife Sarah and hopefully the other two people from the bombed train who have got in contact.
Messages of support continue to pour in. My local mini-cab firm who know me well, and the local Turkish shopkeepers, who are all Muslims, have all passed on best wishes and told me how the local mosque is raising money for those injured.
I told them I was happy that people were all standing shoulder to shoulder to condemn the bombers and to encourage each other.
More bombs went off in Iraq, I just saw on the news, killing many people including small children.
All over the world ordinary people try to do their best in a frightening world.
I'm thinking about all of those who are terrified, injured, caught up in events beyond their control. I'm thankful for the peace and quiet of my little sunny garden where I can have some time to myself.
WEDNESDAY 13 JULY 0029 BST
Getting into work really took it out of me. I arrived something of a nervous wreck and stayed wobbly until lunchtime. I was very pleased that I had got on the Tube and faced the fear but my attempts at being efficient in the office were rubbish.
I caught up with e-mails, that kind of thing. It was very hard to focus. Twice I had to hide in the loo and have a quick weep for 10 minutes.
I told the girls on my team about Thursday and they were full of support. Colleagues came to my desk and told me they were glad to see me. I've only worked here since May - it is lovely to know that people are looking out for me.
My lovely friend Susie just called to see how I was and to get some advice on her love life. It's good that things are starting to get back to normality.
I've had another message from another person who was on the train who stood opposite me and got on at King's Cross. I'm very happy that I am able to find out how more people escaped from Carriage One and that we who were there are able to find each other.
He had read my blog and about how I had met up with Mark and Sarah. He also had felt a need to talk to others who had experienced what he had in the dark carriage and tunnel.
He described what he was wearing and I remembered seeing him at Russell Square ticket hall.
Mark and I both e-mailed him back and we are hoping he will be able to join us and other Londoners on Thursday at noon when there will be a two-minute silence. There will also be a vigil in Trafalgar Square at 1800 BST. Hopefully, he will be able to meet for a beer as well - it really does help to talk.
If anyone recognises some of the feelings I have described - numbness, euphoria, guilt, anger - can I ask you to think about talking to someone about it? I've learned this week that while your body might come through an accident in one piece, your mind and memory can be very shocked and also need help to get better.
I'm still watching the news. There were some developments tonight that made me agog at the speed of the police investigative work. But the numb news junkiedom has gone. The attacks are no longer the only thing I think about.
I still lit another candle tonight though. I did so in thankfulness for being alive on a warm summer Tuesday night.
TUESDAY 12 JULY 1148 BST
I got to Finsbury Park station with John, who'd managed to wangle coming in late so he could travel with me. I was feeling very frightened but determined.
As I got to the station I discovered that the staff had closed the grille and people were milling about unable to get on the Victoria line train. It turned out that the line was so overcrowded that they weren't letting any more people onto the train.
I almost burst into tears. It brought back many unwelcome memories of Russell Square grille being closed and the commuters milling about outside trying to get onto the train whilst I and the other survivors staggered about trying to get out of the station.
"Do you want to get a cab?" asked John. I said no. "I won't be able to have you next to me next time I get on the Tube, and I've got to get on it, otherwise it will just get worse and worse."
We went and had a coffee and I began to cry with frustration and fear. I didn't want to get on at all but I knew I had to, and the delay was making it harder.
We paid for the coffees and I called work again to let them know I was still trying to get in. Then I pressed my lips together and walked to the platform, turning right to the Victoria line instead of left.
And I got on the first carriage, by the first set of double doors just as I had done on Thursday. But this time I got a seat.
As the train set off I began to well up and shake. I held John tightly. As we approached Kings Cross a man leaned towards me. "Is this your first time back on the tube?" he asked, having noticed my distress and looking a little shaky himself.
I said yes. We began to talk. His name was Eamon and he had been on the same train as me on Thursday! I recognised him from the newspapers.
We talked of how frightened we had been. We both talked in a rush and the journey passed quickly. We exchanged numbers and shook hands. I surfaced at Oxford Circus, with John, in tears of relief and amazed yet again that I had met another survivor.
I arrived at work and had a talk with my boss who was sympathetic and kind.
My team were glad to see me. I'm glad to be here. Made it. Cups of tea all round.
TUESDAY 12 JULY 0824 BST
Right. Time to go back to work. On the Tube.
I texted my boss last night and said I would be in, but would it be ok to avoid the rush hour?
So instead of setting off at 8am like I normally do (or 8.20am, like I did on 7/7) I'm going to leave the house after 9am.
I'm feeling very quivery at the thought of it, the sensation of fear is like a shaky feeling in my chest and a watery feeling in my stomach. I'm going to take my heels in a bag and wear flat shoes. In case I need to run. And carry a bottle of water, but I normally do that in hot weather.
The way I am going to manage the Tube journey is to think of getting out the other end and how pleased with myself I will be when I get off. And how much I like my job and want to get back to it. I've only been in my new job since May. Nearly being blown up is not really the way I wanted to raise my profile in the office!
I'm going to look at my fellow passengers, as I said last night, and if I start to have a panic attack I will just break the Don't Talk We're Londoners rule of London Tube-travelling and say "I'm feeling scared, can you help me?".
And if I see anyone leaving their bag unattended I think I will probably slap them.
I'll let you know how I get on.
TUESDAY 12 JULY 0027 BST
Mark and his wife Sarah came round tonight, strangers who are neighbours who are now friends, because we are survivors of the bomb.
John and I poured wine and we four sat in the scented garden and listened and talked with the instant confidence of shared experience.
"Where were you? So the bomb was there? Do you remember this face, that sound, what did you do when you heard the driver, did you break the window?
"Did you know it was a bomb? Did you think we were going to suffocate in a fire? Did you think we were going to die?"
Neither Mark nor I had cried properly yet. Both of us very badly needed to hear from someone else in the same carriage, with the same experience.
Both of us spoke of the flashes of shocked memory, the guilt, the elation, the desperate trying to make sense of the senseless. The incomprehensible fact that we were both still here.
Sarah and John talked too, of the worry and fear, the relief and anxiety, the happiness held to the heart, despite the realisation of the damage done to other homes, other families, as the missing never came home.
All of us felt as if we had come on a long journey together by the end of the evening.
Mark told me and John of how he had faced his fears since and boarded the Tube with Sarah at his side.
I realised I had seen him on TV and told him how his determination to "get back in the saddle" had inspired me to get back to work.
He confided how hard it had been, how he, like so many other commuters now dreaded the bang of brakes, the slowing down in a tunnel, the crowding in of bodies, the lack of air.
I thought of the journey by Tube I intended to make tomorrow, and how frightened I felt at the thought.
John had told me how afraid he had felt this morning.
I looked around the table at the four of us, and I thought of Thursday 7 July.
I said I was determined to look into the faces of my fellow travellers tomorrow. Something Tube travellers never do.
As we left the station, I would be thinking, like everyone else in the carriage, of a bang, a cloud of smoke.
Of whether the face opposite me would be the face that looked into my eyes and held my hand if the unimaginable happened. Of whether the stranger on the train would be the guide in the panic and the voice in the dark.
If these bombs make us realise that we are all fellow travellers, that we all need each other and can rely on each other, then something very good will come out of all of this.
I was going to listen to music tonight, something I haven't been able to do since Thursday. But I'm still not quite ready. I can feel the tears there, ready to fall. I am going to light a candle instead. For those who didn't come home.
I am so glad to have talked to someone who was there. It has really, really helped.
MONDAY 11 JULY 1524 BST
I've come back from seeing my GP, who was more shocked than me when I told her what had happened; I had to tell her to pull herself together as she was starting to flap!
She checked my lungs and breathing and everything is fine. My stitches need to stay in another week.
An amazing thing happened today: Mark, a man who was on the train in the same carriage as me got in touch. He had read my account on the urban 75 community internet site where I was originally posting my experiences before I moved to the BBC.
He posted his story too, and we got in contact with each other. It turns out that he lives up the road from me, and when the bomb went off, was one of the people sitting just in front of me behind the driver's cab.
He was the man who spoke to the driver and passed the message back to me: "The driver is going to get us off this train, but we need to make sure that the track isn't live first".
I passed the message to the women around me and we shouted it back into the darkness of the train, to try to stop the panic and screaming.
Because of that communication, many of us escaped calmly and walked to safety. His story exactly matches my story. It is quite incredible to think that we have got in touch. We spoke on the phone, and he and his wife are coming round later to have a glass of wine in my garden with me and John, my partner.
His calm voice in the darkness was one of the things that kept me calm and gave me hope; I had been wondering if I would ever find out about him, and then he gets in touch!
The internet is really coming into its own with people sharing information and comfort and news.
John made it into work safely and called me to say he had arrived. It is hard for him as well; he has been supporting me unstintingly and has had to deal with the information that I escaped death by yards and so nearly didn't emerge from such a hellish scene.
He says it is rather hard to concentrate on the minutiae of work at the moment. I'm not surprised. I also spoke to Jenna, the colleague from my office who I called when I emerged from Russell Square in shock.
She rushed over in a black cab with a first aid kit to Russell Square and took me to hospital. She had only qualified as a first aider the week before, and here she was, helping survivors of a terrorist atrocity!
She was a wonderful comfort to me and others at the hospital and she stayed with me until I found John and we could make our way home.
Then she put on her trainers and jogged back to South London, as all the public transport was in chaos. What a woman. So many ordinary people, who have faced extraordinary things. So inspiring to talk to each other and share our stories.
The fear is leaving me and the sense of pride is growing, proud of myself for holding it together, proud of all the people who helped, proud of London, my adopted city. We're going to put on one hell of an Olympics after this.
SUNDAY 10 JULY 2130 BST
Still watching the news. A million poppy petals fell today in memory of those who died in the war 60 years ago.
I couldn't help but think of how it must have been when Londoners endured daily bombings and fear.
Many people have talked of the 'Blitz' spirit being present over the last few days.
If what they mean is a determination to continue with our lives and show compassion, friendliness and humour when we are frightened, instead of hatefulness, then perhaps something of the Blitz spirit is with us still.
I don't want to live in a suspicious, paranoid, angry city. I love London's diversity and tolerance and zest for life.
I want us to get back to normal as soon as possible. If the World War II generation coped with bombs with style and bravery, then, damn it, so can we Londoners of 2005.
I'm e-mailing mates to arrange to meet up socially after work mid-week. I'm going back to work on Tuesday.
I'm going to sleep early tonight though, and rest tomorrow. I feel absolutely shattered.
I think I'll be able to sleep tonight without drinking alcohol to numb myself. The sickly fire smell is fading from my throat and nose and I've hardly coughed at all today.
I'm starting to feel more connected instead of disassociated and I am starting to allow myself to feel deep sadness for what happened, instead of the outrage/ numbness/ euphoria states I have been flickering between since the blast.
SUNDAY 10 JULY 1542 BST
I poured myself an enormous whisky after the police had gone on Saturday evening, taking the sealed forensic bags with my sooty stinking suit and blouse that I was wearing on Thursday morning.
I hugged John, my partner, and we stood in the garden, listening to the bees in the lavender bushes. My mouth felt numb.
We looked at each other and we talked of those who were missing and the people who had been standing behind me who took the full force of the blow.
I thought again of the terrible screams I had heard.
The black man covered in blood who was being half carried, half dragged by the white man walking behind me on the tracks to Russell Square.
He had groaned all the way whilst we were walking in silent single file to the Tube.
I thought of how the people behind me had died.
It was a lot to take in.
I had a dizzying sense of vertigo, as if I had stepped back from a sheer cliff and the ground had rushed up to meet me.
I went back into the flat and found the BBC News website and looked at the diagram of my carriage and the train and the bomb. I kept staring at it.
Then I looked at the diagram in the Times of the carriage and the bomb and the little escaping people.
I still couldn't see why I was alive and had escaped with a cut wrist and scratches.
I decided to go out of the house.
I put on lipstick.
It was a beautiful night, warm and soft, and I could smell cooking and the scent of flowers.
The streets seemed quieter than normal, the usual crowds of young men who hang around outside the cafes of Finsbury Park were not there.
John and I held hands tightly.
I met my best friend, Jane, who lives close by, in a nearby bar and suddenly a wave of joy hit me again, and none of us could stop talking, and smiling at each other.
We left the bar and picked up some wine from the off licence and I found myself beaming at the Turkish shopkeeper as if he was a favourite uncle
He looked bemused but smiled back.
We sat in Jane's garden downing glass after glass of cold wine and eating mango salad that her next door neighbour brought over, all of us babbling with happiness - and getting completely drunk.
I walked home, still holding John's hand and I fell into bed at 0300, saying to myself again and again "I'm alive. I'm really alive. I'm still here", and I hugged myself.
Woke up this morning still in a disbelieving state, mildly hungover, with sun pouring through the curtains.
I've been sitting in the garden again still ploughing my way through the newspapers, still reading and re-reading other witness accounts.
I was reading about horror and death and maiming in the sunshine, with the cat snoring next to me.
I felt sick as I read, then that floating with happiness dislocated feeling.
I keep wondering at myself, why am I still reading the news all the time, when I know what happened?
I am a bit disgusted with my own reactions.
I suppose I am still shocked and my reactions still aren't normal.
I have only cried once. I don't think I can bear to cry properly yet. I suppose it will happen in time.
SUNDAY 10 JULY 0350 BST
After a detailed anti-terrorism staff interview I found out some stuff I needed to share.
The King's Cross bomb was placed at the end of the first carriage, not the first set of doors on the front carriage as reported on the news.
The Tube tunnel was very narrow here and the train was very crowded, which was why most of the people were killed and hurt at the back of carriage one and front of carriage two.
From being there about seven to 10 yards from the blast, I can say that there were people behind me who may not have got out alive.
About 10 behind me walked to safety.
I can also say that when I was at University College Hospital there was one woman at least that I saw with total amnesia who had no idea of her name, address, anything, so please therefore do not give up hope, if you are searching.
There is a small hope.
I can also say that the blast was very intense, so if you were right next to it, it would have been almost instantaneous, because the tube tunnel was so small, and the train so rammed, those next to it would have taken the full force of the blast. I do not know what else to say, I am sorry.
SATURDAY 9 JULY 2005 1031 BST
Yesterday was a weird day.
I felt sick all day, which I think was the smoke inhalation and the news overload.
Friends called and texted and several beautiful bunches of flowers arrived. I love flowers.
I felt overwhelmed by support and love.
Also felt hugely freaked out as I felt I could so nearly have died.
Couldn't stop watching news.
The rolling BBC and ITV news started saying the bomb at King's Cross was on the first carriage by the double doors going towards Russell Square - near where I had been standing.
When the blast went off I fell to the left into a heap of people, by the left-hand set of doors.
It was too dark to see what was smashed.
We escaped through the driver's cab and walked to Russell Square but the news said most people escaped out the back and walked to King's Cross.
When I started hearing the bomb was in my carriage, I flipped. I started pacing about.
I phoned the BBC to ask them where they got this information from, then I phoned the anti-terrorist hotline and gave a more detailed witness statement.
I was alternately pounding with anger and adrenalin, and having mini-flashbacks, then feeling falling-over-tired.
I drank several whiskies.
My sister came to visit, and I was so glad to see her, and we ate some pizza with my boyfriend - suddenly I was starving after eating barely anything for 24 hours.
I just had endless cups of tea.
I watched a programme about orphaned baby elephants on the BBC and briefly felt normal delight.
I tried to sleep and kept jumping up remembering the bang and smelling the smoke and hearing the screams.
I took a herbal remedy and calmed down and went to sleep about 11pm still feeling nauseous and utterly drained.
Today I feel much better. Not sick any more.
The best way to defeat the terrorists is to go to work on the Tube, to dress and work how I want as a woman, to enjoy the rich social life that London offers, to have no fear of other cultures or creeds.
We should only to be wary of the hate-filled, the nihilistic, the furiously angry who won't listen or engage.
I'm now drinking yet more tea and about to put my lovely flowers in vases.
My fingernails are still black, so I'm going to cut them off. My chest still feels full of soot and I'm still coughing a bit. My stitches are healing nicely.
Things feel a bit more normal but I think I am going to see about getting a massage or some trauma counselling.
I've had post-traumatic stress disorder before so I know the drill and how I react.
I am aware of how telling my eyewitness story to a couple of journalists outside the hospital helped me get the story out straight away.
My normal reaction to trauma is to tell someone, to share it.
More journos phoned yesterday. I must have given my mobile to the stringer who was asking questions when I was wandering outside the hospital getting fresh air after being stitched still in shock.
The Mail on Sunday and Metro wanted to send a photographer round! I said no way.
I said I felt it was important to get witness statements out at the time as I was there and felt relatively untraumatised so I'd rather they spoke to me than shoved their mikes and cameras in the faces of those who were shell-shocked or more injured.
Having done that I really do not want any more fuss.
I happened to be there, I said what it was like, that's enough.
I'm dumping on the internet under my urban75 [community and action website] pseudonym. I'm talking to people who love me, I'm doing what I need to get through this.
I was incredibly lucky but I have no desire to become a "Blast Survivor Girlie" one week on.
I still really, really want to know - need to know - if the bomb was on my carriage and if any of the people who I saw getting in at King's Cross were hurt or died, especially the laughing black woman with braids.
Her smiling face haunts me, as does the fact that someone may have got in behind her carrying the bomb.
If the bomb was that close why aren't I dead?
Keep thinking of WH Auden's Icarus poem about the banality of evil.
FRIDAY 8 JULY 0900 BST
I'm not going in today because I need to rest up but I will be getting on the Tube on Monday.
And yes, I probably will feel scared and I probably will remember the bomb, but as I said to someone yesterday, when we were on the train stuck underground we established that we could survive a Tube bomb.
I am going to travel again. I don't see what else to do really.
Today, lots of people on the Tube will be worrying about what if and whether they'd cope, and I'll know I did cope, we all coped, which is kind of empowering really.
I'm scared but I'm angry, so I'm using the anger to get through it.
We all need to go to work. Life goes on.
I am angry at those who planned and executed this.
I would like to thank the police officers, CID forensic team, the train driver, all at University College Hospital including the x-ray team, hospital support staff, doctors, nurses, the volunteer nurse Faith who rushed in on her day off to staff the outpatient ward.
You were all absolutely wonderful and magnificent and I take my hat off to you. Thank you for looking after me.
You stitched my wound, x-rayed me, cheered me and calmed me and cared for me. And hundreds of other frightened, hurt people. Big up to you!
Sharing what happened helped.
I am feeling a bit hungover and my arm aches but apart from that I am 90% fine.
I was a bit traumatised and shocked yesterday and kept smelling the horrible smoke smell.
I coughed a lot and blew my nose and it was black, so after that I felt better because I realised I wasn't going mad, the smell was real and would go in time.
Putting a cold decongestant stick up my nose was a good idea.
I am going back to work on Monday regardless of the bombers.
I was so proud of London yesterday. I still am.
Peddling hate-filled nihilistic clap trap is never going to get very far with us.
I am still feeling glad to be here and glad to be alive and grateful to the emergency services and the hero train driver and the police.
I'm going to sit in the garden today and look at the flowers and the sun and appreciate everything.
Personally I would like everything to get back to normal as soon as, with perhaps a deeper understanding of how great being alive in this diverse and beautiful and proud city is.
THURSDAY 7 JULY 2357 BST
I'm okay, just starting to crash.
I am keeping calm, but unable to get the horrible smell out of my nose, even though I have had a bath.
I am getting a bit tearful but I had this overwhelming need to get the story out, so everyone owned it and it wasn't just jammed in my head, freaking me out.
It helps to say what happened
THURSDAY 7 JULY 2259 BST
I was on a crowded train to work. It was 8.40am when I boarded the rammed Piccadilly line train at Finsbury Park.
Normally I board half way up the train, but the train was so full, I walked up to the front of the train.
I was in the first carriage, behind the driver's carriage, standing by the doors - it was absolutely packed.
Even more people got on at Kings Cross. It felt like the most crowded train ever. Then, as we left Kings Cross, at about 8.55am, there was an almighty bang.
Everything went totally black and clouds of choking smoke filled the Tube carriage and I thought I had been blinded.
It was so dark that nobody could see anything.
I thought I was about to die, or was dead. I was choking from the smoke and felt like I was drowning.
Air started to flood in through the smashed glass and the emergency lighting helped us see a bit. We were OK.
A terrible screaming followed the initial silence.
We tried to stop ourselves from panicking by talking to each other and listening to the driver who started talking to us.
There was screaming and groaning but we calmed each other and tried to listen to the driver.
He told us he was going to take the train forward a little so he could get us out, after he had made sure the track wasn't live.
We all passed the message into the darkness behind us, down the train.
After about 20 to 30 minutes we started to leave the train.
We were choking and trying not to panic because we knew that would mean curtains.
We tried to keep each other calm, I remember saying: "If anyone's boss gives them grief for being late, we know what to say to them, eh, girls?"
People laughed and we kept saying, "not long, it's the long walk to freedom, nearly there".
I knew if we panicked we'd trip on the - possibly live - tracks and it would be hopeless.
So we just tried to stay cool, and trust we'd be safe soon.
We'd escaped from the smashed carriage and just had to stay calm and escape from the dark tunnel too.
We walked carefully through the semi-darkness - we didn't know if the tracks were live so we walked between them - the emergency lights were on in the tunnel.
We walked in single file to Russell Square station and after what felt like half an hour we were lifted off the tracks to safety.
Then I was in a lift, euphorically calm, then in the station foyer, surrounded by filthy blackened shocked people and someone was handing me water.
My mouth was so dry. My lungs felt full of choking dirt and I became aware of a huge bleeding gash full of glass in my wrist and that I could see the bone in my arm, and then I felt sick.
I realised I needed to clean my cut as it was full of grit, and I was bleeding, so I held my arm above my head and breathed in and out hard.
But I also knew I didn't need an ambulance - it was a nasty gash, not a maiming.
I staggered about outside the tube and no-one seemed to know what to do, least of all me.
I called my friend who works in Shaftesbury Avenue and she came in a cab and she took me to University College Hospital.
We asked if anyone wanted to get a lift to the hospital but people seemed too shocked to respond and I started to faint.
I just wanted to get my wound cleaned and stitched and get home.
I was feeling sick and worrying much worse casualties would be coming later.
I was walking wounded, not really badly hurt, and I felt almost bad for having survived and got off so lightly. I knew others behind me were so much worse off than I was.
The hospital staff were so lovely I kept wanting to cry but I knew I needed to stay calm and get home.
I got treated, my cut cleaned of glass and x-rayed.
Hours passed.
I felt even more calm and light-headed as people started to flood into the hospital covered in glass and blood.
The police talked to me and gave me a forensic bag for my clothes.
I felt like I got into the hospital so fast and the emergency services staff weren't quite in the rush hour yet.
I was so very lucky.
The emergency staff were clearly shocked but doing all they could and rose to the occasion so bravely.
I can't thank them enough. They were magnificent.
They kept me in for four hours with shock and they stitched me up but they wouldn't let me go because I had gone deaf and they weren't sure if I had broken my arm.
X-rays proved it was just bashed.
Eventually I got out and met my partner and we walked to Camden as there were no buses or trains and we were desperate to get home.
Seeing his face was wonderful. I started to shake with the relief of being alive.
In the pub I found out there had been many bombs.
I went into shock - I probably still am in shock.
It took another two hours to get home after a friend managed to pick us up in her car.
I am very lucky. I feel euphoric. I'm sure I'll crash soon, but right now, I'm so glad to be alive.
(Preferably read from the bottom up for a chronological order.)
THURSDAY 14 JULY 0927 BST
Last night I managed to speak to my parents. They had been teaching a painting course in Norfolk, and whilst we had been texting regularly, we had not been able to talk to each other.
They talked of their shock and sadness. It had been very difficult when they had to look after course students all day and evening, giving them little time to deal with the news of their eldest child being on the bombed train.
Later on, another man who had been on my carriage and found out about me from this diary managed to get in contact and we talked for a long time and agreed to meet for the silence tomorrow with some of the other victims.
My friend and neighbour Jane came round and cooked us sausages and we all sat in the garden feeling shattered. After she had gone I began to cry, properly, for the first time. I couldn't stop sobbing and shaking. John held me.
I wept for the poor people who had been standing behind me who had died and been injured. A hundred feet down in a narrow, dirty, smoke-choked dark tunnel, I had to leave them there, screaming and crying, dead or dying and I could not help them.
I wept with despairing anger at the men who had done this, how could they hate so much? How could they think this was glorious, or just?
I wept because I had been so afraid, and because I had survived, and I had walked away from the train and my fellow passengers had not.
Tears are in my eyes again now. It's almost more than I can bear.
I must get ready to go to Trafalgar Square to observe the silence with the other people from my train.
After we will go to King's Cross to lay flowers, then to a pub where I will meet some friends. And at 6pm we will go to Trafalgar Square again for the Vigil.
And I hope I and other Londoners will find some peace and resolution there, standing together.
THURSDAY 14 JULY 0930 BST
John and I were quiet, thinking of how I had got on the train with all the other people. We tuned to BBC Radio 4 at 8.50am, the time of the explosions.
We listened to people's witness of how they had been on the train, rescued people from the tracks, searched for the missing and how they had not been found. We were both in tears.
WEDNESDAY 13 JULY 1755 BST
So, the bombers were young British men, and they killed themselves along with their fellow passengers. I'm sad, but not surprised.
They killed Londoners and people from all over the world, including Muslims.
It is terrible to think about why they chose to do such a thing. I cannot imagine what it must be like to hate so much that you are willing to blow yourself and other people to pieces to prove it.
I studied Theology at University, and I know that the Bible, the Torah, the Koran all contain passages that can be interpreted to back up all kinds of personal and political agendas.
But I also know that all the major world faiths teach of the sanctity and value of life, of how love is more important than hate. I have had many messages of support from friends and strangers, of all faiths and backgrounds. And everyone has said the same thing: how sad they are, what a despicable criminal act the bombers performed, and how futile it was.
Bombing, hate, murder and evil happen all over the world. Here in Britain we are not immune from it. This is unutterably sad, but like everywhere else, we will pick ourselves up and go on. I don't want to meet hate with hate.
Hate feeds hate. I've had enough of it. I'm scared, but not that scared.
WEDNESDAY 13 JULY 1244 BST
I talked to a counselling service on the phone (work gave me the number) and then to my boss and we all agreed that taking a bit of time off would be a good idea.
I'm feeling very, very tired indeed and I'm still not sleeping very well. I am starting to cry at odd times. I will go back to work on Monday after I have had my stitches taken out.
It was good to have faced the Tube journey and to have got that over with, but doing so did make me remember the events of Thursday morning all over again and has made me realise how frightened, shocked and deep-down tired I still am.
I need to rest, rushing about trying to get better using sheer willpower isn't going to make my body heal any faster and it isn't going to make my mind heal any faster either.
So I am going to spend the day in the garden with my tomato plants and pots of flowers and the cat, being quiet.
Tomorrow I am going to Trafalgar Square for the two minute silence and I am going to meet up with Mark and his wife Sarah and hopefully the other two people from the bombed train who have got in contact.
Messages of support continue to pour in. My local mini-cab firm who know me well, and the local Turkish shopkeepers, who are all Muslims, have all passed on best wishes and told me how the local mosque is raising money for those injured.
I told them I was happy that people were all standing shoulder to shoulder to condemn the bombers and to encourage each other.
More bombs went off in Iraq, I just saw on the news, killing many people including small children.
All over the world ordinary people try to do their best in a frightening world.
I'm thinking about all of those who are terrified, injured, caught up in events beyond their control. I'm thankful for the peace and quiet of my little sunny garden where I can have some time to myself.
WEDNESDAY 13 JULY 0029 BST
Getting into work really took it out of me. I arrived something of a nervous wreck and stayed wobbly until lunchtime. I was very pleased that I had got on the Tube and faced the fear but my attempts at being efficient in the office were rubbish.
I caught up with e-mails, that kind of thing. It was very hard to focus. Twice I had to hide in the loo and have a quick weep for 10 minutes.
I told the girls on my team about Thursday and they were full of support. Colleagues came to my desk and told me they were glad to see me. I've only worked here since May - it is lovely to know that people are looking out for me.
My lovely friend Susie just called to see how I was and to get some advice on her love life. It's good that things are starting to get back to normality.
I've had another message from another person who was on the train who stood opposite me and got on at King's Cross. I'm very happy that I am able to find out how more people escaped from Carriage One and that we who were there are able to find each other.
He had read my blog and about how I had met up with Mark and Sarah. He also had felt a need to talk to others who had experienced what he had in the dark carriage and tunnel.
He described what he was wearing and I remembered seeing him at Russell Square ticket hall.
Mark and I both e-mailed him back and we are hoping he will be able to join us and other Londoners on Thursday at noon when there will be a two-minute silence. There will also be a vigil in Trafalgar Square at 1800 BST. Hopefully, he will be able to meet for a beer as well - it really does help to talk.
If anyone recognises some of the feelings I have described - numbness, euphoria, guilt, anger - can I ask you to think about talking to someone about it? I've learned this week that while your body might come through an accident in one piece, your mind and memory can be very shocked and also need help to get better.
I'm still watching the news. There were some developments tonight that made me agog at the speed of the police investigative work. But the numb news junkiedom has gone. The attacks are no longer the only thing I think about.
I still lit another candle tonight though. I did so in thankfulness for being alive on a warm summer Tuesday night.
TUESDAY 12 JULY 1148 BST
I got to Finsbury Park station with John, who'd managed to wangle coming in late so he could travel with me. I was feeling very frightened but determined.
As I got to the station I discovered that the staff had closed the grille and people were milling about unable to get on the Victoria line train. It turned out that the line was so overcrowded that they weren't letting any more people onto the train.
I almost burst into tears. It brought back many unwelcome memories of Russell Square grille being closed and the commuters milling about outside trying to get onto the train whilst I and the other survivors staggered about trying to get out of the station.
"Do you want to get a cab?" asked John. I said no. "I won't be able to have you next to me next time I get on the Tube, and I've got to get on it, otherwise it will just get worse and worse."
We went and had a coffee and I began to cry with frustration and fear. I didn't want to get on at all but I knew I had to, and the delay was making it harder.
We paid for the coffees and I called work again to let them know I was still trying to get in. Then I pressed my lips together and walked to the platform, turning right to the Victoria line instead of left.
And I got on the first carriage, by the first set of double doors just as I had done on Thursday. But this time I got a seat.
As the train set off I began to well up and shake. I held John tightly. As we approached Kings Cross a man leaned towards me. "Is this your first time back on the tube?" he asked, having noticed my distress and looking a little shaky himself.
I said yes. We began to talk. His name was Eamon and he had been on the same train as me on Thursday! I recognised him from the newspapers.
We talked of how frightened we had been. We both talked in a rush and the journey passed quickly. We exchanged numbers and shook hands. I surfaced at Oxford Circus, with John, in tears of relief and amazed yet again that I had met another survivor.
I arrived at work and had a talk with my boss who was sympathetic and kind.
My team were glad to see me. I'm glad to be here. Made it. Cups of tea all round.
TUESDAY 12 JULY 0824 BST
Right. Time to go back to work. On the Tube.
I texted my boss last night and said I would be in, but would it be ok to avoid the rush hour?
So instead of setting off at 8am like I normally do (or 8.20am, like I did on 7/7) I'm going to leave the house after 9am.
I'm feeling very quivery at the thought of it, the sensation of fear is like a shaky feeling in my chest and a watery feeling in my stomach. I'm going to take my heels in a bag and wear flat shoes. In case I need to run. And carry a bottle of water, but I normally do that in hot weather.
The way I am going to manage the Tube journey is to think of getting out the other end and how pleased with myself I will be when I get off. And how much I like my job and want to get back to it. I've only been in my new job since May. Nearly being blown up is not really the way I wanted to raise my profile in the office!
I'm going to look at my fellow passengers, as I said last night, and if I start to have a panic attack I will just break the Don't Talk We're Londoners rule of London Tube-travelling and say "I'm feeling scared, can you help me?".
And if I see anyone leaving their bag unattended I think I will probably slap them.
I'll let you know how I get on.
TUESDAY 12 JULY 0027 BST
Mark and his wife Sarah came round tonight, strangers who are neighbours who are now friends, because we are survivors of the bomb.
John and I poured wine and we four sat in the scented garden and listened and talked with the instant confidence of shared experience.
"Where were you? So the bomb was there? Do you remember this face, that sound, what did you do when you heard the driver, did you break the window?
"Did you know it was a bomb? Did you think we were going to suffocate in a fire? Did you think we were going to die?"
Neither Mark nor I had cried properly yet. Both of us very badly needed to hear from someone else in the same carriage, with the same experience.
Both of us spoke of the flashes of shocked memory, the guilt, the elation, the desperate trying to make sense of the senseless. The incomprehensible fact that we were both still here.
Sarah and John talked too, of the worry and fear, the relief and anxiety, the happiness held to the heart, despite the realisation of the damage done to other homes, other families, as the missing never came home.
All of us felt as if we had come on a long journey together by the end of the evening.
Mark told me and John of how he had faced his fears since and boarded the Tube with Sarah at his side.
I realised I had seen him on TV and told him how his determination to "get back in the saddle" had inspired me to get back to work.
He confided how hard it had been, how he, like so many other commuters now dreaded the bang of brakes, the slowing down in a tunnel, the crowding in of bodies, the lack of air.
I thought of the journey by Tube I intended to make tomorrow, and how frightened I felt at the thought.
John had told me how afraid he had felt this morning.
I looked around the table at the four of us, and I thought of Thursday 7 July.
I said I was determined to look into the faces of my fellow travellers tomorrow. Something Tube travellers never do.
As we left the station, I would be thinking, like everyone else in the carriage, of a bang, a cloud of smoke.
Of whether the face opposite me would be the face that looked into my eyes and held my hand if the unimaginable happened. Of whether the stranger on the train would be the guide in the panic and the voice in the dark.
If these bombs make us realise that we are all fellow travellers, that we all need each other and can rely on each other, then something very good will come out of all of this.
I was going to listen to music tonight, something I haven't been able to do since Thursday. But I'm still not quite ready. I can feel the tears there, ready to fall. I am going to light a candle instead. For those who didn't come home.
I am so glad to have talked to someone who was there. It has really, really helped.
MONDAY 11 JULY 1524 BST
I've come back from seeing my GP, who was more shocked than me when I told her what had happened; I had to tell her to pull herself together as she was starting to flap!
She checked my lungs and breathing and everything is fine. My stitches need to stay in another week.
An amazing thing happened today: Mark, a man who was on the train in the same carriage as me got in touch. He had read my account on the urban 75 community internet site where I was originally posting my experiences before I moved to the BBC.
He posted his story too, and we got in contact with each other. It turns out that he lives up the road from me, and when the bomb went off, was one of the people sitting just in front of me behind the driver's cab.
He was the man who spoke to the driver and passed the message back to me: "The driver is going to get us off this train, but we need to make sure that the track isn't live first".
I passed the message to the women around me and we shouted it back into the darkness of the train, to try to stop the panic and screaming.
Because of that communication, many of us escaped calmly and walked to safety. His story exactly matches my story. It is quite incredible to think that we have got in touch. We spoke on the phone, and he and his wife are coming round later to have a glass of wine in my garden with me and John, my partner.
His calm voice in the darkness was one of the things that kept me calm and gave me hope; I had been wondering if I would ever find out about him, and then he gets in touch!
The internet is really coming into its own with people sharing information and comfort and news.
John made it into work safely and called me to say he had arrived. It is hard for him as well; he has been supporting me unstintingly and has had to deal with the information that I escaped death by yards and so nearly didn't emerge from such a hellish scene.
He says it is rather hard to concentrate on the minutiae of work at the moment. I'm not surprised. I also spoke to Jenna, the colleague from my office who I called when I emerged from Russell Square in shock.
She rushed over in a black cab with a first aid kit to Russell Square and took me to hospital. She had only qualified as a first aider the week before, and here she was, helping survivors of a terrorist atrocity!
She was a wonderful comfort to me and others at the hospital and she stayed with me until I found John and we could make our way home.
Then she put on her trainers and jogged back to South London, as all the public transport was in chaos. What a woman. So many ordinary people, who have faced extraordinary things. So inspiring to talk to each other and share our stories.
The fear is leaving me and the sense of pride is growing, proud of myself for holding it together, proud of all the people who helped, proud of London, my adopted city. We're going to put on one hell of an Olympics after this.
SUNDAY 10 JULY 2130 BST
Still watching the news. A million poppy petals fell today in memory of those who died in the war 60 years ago.
I couldn't help but think of how it must have been when Londoners endured daily bombings and fear.
Many people have talked of the 'Blitz' spirit being present over the last few days.
If what they mean is a determination to continue with our lives and show compassion, friendliness and humour when we are frightened, instead of hatefulness, then perhaps something of the Blitz spirit is with us still.
I don't want to live in a suspicious, paranoid, angry city. I love London's diversity and tolerance and zest for life.
I want us to get back to normal as soon as possible. If the World War II generation coped with bombs with style and bravery, then, damn it, so can we Londoners of 2005.
I'm e-mailing mates to arrange to meet up socially after work mid-week. I'm going back to work on Tuesday.
I'm going to sleep early tonight though, and rest tomorrow. I feel absolutely shattered.
I think I'll be able to sleep tonight without drinking alcohol to numb myself. The sickly fire smell is fading from my throat and nose and I've hardly coughed at all today.
I'm starting to feel more connected instead of disassociated and I am starting to allow myself to feel deep sadness for what happened, instead of the outrage/ numbness/ euphoria states I have been flickering between since the blast.
SUNDAY 10 JULY 1542 BST
I poured myself an enormous whisky after the police had gone on Saturday evening, taking the sealed forensic bags with my sooty stinking suit and blouse that I was wearing on Thursday morning.
I hugged John, my partner, and we stood in the garden, listening to the bees in the lavender bushes. My mouth felt numb.
We looked at each other and we talked of those who were missing and the people who had been standing behind me who took the full force of the blow.
I thought again of the terrible screams I had heard.
The black man covered in blood who was being half carried, half dragged by the white man walking behind me on the tracks to Russell Square.
He had groaned all the way whilst we were walking in silent single file to the Tube.
I thought of how the people behind me had died.
It was a lot to take in.
I had a dizzying sense of vertigo, as if I had stepped back from a sheer cliff and the ground had rushed up to meet me.
I went back into the flat and found the BBC News website and looked at the diagram of my carriage and the train and the bomb. I kept staring at it.
Then I looked at the diagram in the Times of the carriage and the bomb and the little escaping people.
I still couldn't see why I was alive and had escaped with a cut wrist and scratches.
I decided to go out of the house.
I put on lipstick.
It was a beautiful night, warm and soft, and I could smell cooking and the scent of flowers.
The streets seemed quieter than normal, the usual crowds of young men who hang around outside the cafes of Finsbury Park were not there.
John and I held hands tightly.
I met my best friend, Jane, who lives close by, in a nearby bar and suddenly a wave of joy hit me again, and none of us could stop talking, and smiling at each other.
We left the bar and picked up some wine from the off licence and I found myself beaming at the Turkish shopkeeper as if he was a favourite uncle
He looked bemused but smiled back.
We sat in Jane's garden downing glass after glass of cold wine and eating mango salad that her next door neighbour brought over, all of us babbling with happiness - and getting completely drunk.
I walked home, still holding John's hand and I fell into bed at 0300, saying to myself again and again "I'm alive. I'm really alive. I'm still here", and I hugged myself.
Woke up this morning still in a disbelieving state, mildly hungover, with sun pouring through the curtains.
I've been sitting in the garden again still ploughing my way through the newspapers, still reading and re-reading other witness accounts.
I was reading about horror and death and maiming in the sunshine, with the cat snoring next to me.
I felt sick as I read, then that floating with happiness dislocated feeling.
I keep wondering at myself, why am I still reading the news all the time, when I know what happened?
I am a bit disgusted with my own reactions.
I suppose I am still shocked and my reactions still aren't normal.
I have only cried once. I don't think I can bear to cry properly yet. I suppose it will happen in time.
SUNDAY 10 JULY 0350 BST
After a detailed anti-terrorism staff interview I found out some stuff I needed to share.
The King's Cross bomb was placed at the end of the first carriage, not the first set of doors on the front carriage as reported on the news.
The Tube tunnel was very narrow here and the train was very crowded, which was why most of the people were killed and hurt at the back of carriage one and front of carriage two.
From being there about seven to 10 yards from the blast, I can say that there were people behind me who may not have got out alive.
About 10 behind me walked to safety.
I can also say that when I was at University College Hospital there was one woman at least that I saw with total amnesia who had no idea of her name, address, anything, so please therefore do not give up hope, if you are searching.
There is a small hope.
I can also say that the blast was very intense, so if you were right next to it, it would have been almost instantaneous, because the tube tunnel was so small, and the train so rammed, those next to it would have taken the full force of the blast. I do not know what else to say, I am sorry.
SATURDAY 9 JULY 2005 1031 BST
Yesterday was a weird day.
I felt sick all day, which I think was the smoke inhalation and the news overload.
Friends called and texted and several beautiful bunches of flowers arrived. I love flowers.
I felt overwhelmed by support and love.
Also felt hugely freaked out as I felt I could so nearly have died.
Couldn't stop watching news.
The rolling BBC and ITV news started saying the bomb at King's Cross was on the first carriage by the double doors going towards Russell Square - near where I had been standing.
When the blast went off I fell to the left into a heap of people, by the left-hand set of doors.
It was too dark to see what was smashed.
We escaped through the driver's cab and walked to Russell Square but the news said most people escaped out the back and walked to King's Cross.
When I started hearing the bomb was in my carriage, I flipped. I started pacing about.
I phoned the BBC to ask them where they got this information from, then I phoned the anti-terrorist hotline and gave a more detailed witness statement.
I was alternately pounding with anger and adrenalin, and having mini-flashbacks, then feeling falling-over-tired.
I drank several whiskies.
My sister came to visit, and I was so glad to see her, and we ate some pizza with my boyfriend - suddenly I was starving after eating barely anything for 24 hours.
I just had endless cups of tea.
I watched a programme about orphaned baby elephants on the BBC and briefly felt normal delight.
I tried to sleep and kept jumping up remembering the bang and smelling the smoke and hearing the screams.
I took a herbal remedy and calmed down and went to sleep about 11pm still feeling nauseous and utterly drained.
Today I feel much better. Not sick any more.
The best way to defeat the terrorists is to go to work on the Tube, to dress and work how I want as a woman, to enjoy the rich social life that London offers, to have no fear of other cultures or creeds.
We should only to be wary of the hate-filled, the nihilistic, the furiously angry who won't listen or engage.
I'm now drinking yet more tea and about to put my lovely flowers in vases.
My fingernails are still black, so I'm going to cut them off. My chest still feels full of soot and I'm still coughing a bit. My stitches are healing nicely.
Things feel a bit more normal but I think I am going to see about getting a massage or some trauma counselling.
I've had post-traumatic stress disorder before so I know the drill and how I react.
I am aware of how telling my eyewitness story to a couple of journalists outside the hospital helped me get the story out straight away.
My normal reaction to trauma is to tell someone, to share it.
More journos phoned yesterday. I must have given my mobile to the stringer who was asking questions when I was wandering outside the hospital getting fresh air after being stitched still in shock.
The Mail on Sunday and Metro wanted to send a photographer round! I said no way.
I said I felt it was important to get witness statements out at the time as I was there and felt relatively untraumatised so I'd rather they spoke to me than shoved their mikes and cameras in the faces of those who were shell-shocked or more injured.
Having done that I really do not want any more fuss.
I happened to be there, I said what it was like, that's enough.
I'm dumping on the internet under my urban75 [community and action website] pseudonym. I'm talking to people who love me, I'm doing what I need to get through this.
I was incredibly lucky but I have no desire to become a "Blast Survivor Girlie" one week on.
I still really, really want to know - need to know - if the bomb was on my carriage and if any of the people who I saw getting in at King's Cross were hurt or died, especially the laughing black woman with braids.
Her smiling face haunts me, as does the fact that someone may have got in behind her carrying the bomb.
If the bomb was that close why aren't I dead?
Keep thinking of WH Auden's Icarus poem about the banality of evil.
FRIDAY 8 JULY 0900 BST
I'm not going in today because I need to rest up but I will be getting on the Tube on Monday.
And yes, I probably will feel scared and I probably will remember the bomb, but as I said to someone yesterday, when we were on the train stuck underground we established that we could survive a Tube bomb.
I am going to travel again. I don't see what else to do really.
Today, lots of people on the Tube will be worrying about what if and whether they'd cope, and I'll know I did cope, we all coped, which is kind of empowering really.
I'm scared but I'm angry, so I'm using the anger to get through it.
We all need to go to work. Life goes on.
I am angry at those who planned and executed this.
I would like to thank the police officers, CID forensic team, the train driver, all at University College Hospital including the x-ray team, hospital support staff, doctors, nurses, the volunteer nurse Faith who rushed in on her day off to staff the outpatient ward.
You were all absolutely wonderful and magnificent and I take my hat off to you. Thank you for looking after me.
You stitched my wound, x-rayed me, cheered me and calmed me and cared for me. And hundreds of other frightened, hurt people. Big up to you!
Sharing what happened helped.
I am feeling a bit hungover and my arm aches but apart from that I am 90% fine.
I was a bit traumatised and shocked yesterday and kept smelling the horrible smoke smell.
I coughed a lot and blew my nose and it was black, so after that I felt better because I realised I wasn't going mad, the smell was real and would go in time.
Putting a cold decongestant stick up my nose was a good idea.
I am going back to work on Monday regardless of the bombers.
I was so proud of London yesterday. I still am.
Peddling hate-filled nihilistic clap trap is never going to get very far with us.
I am still feeling glad to be here and glad to be alive and grateful to the emergency services and the hero train driver and the police.
I'm going to sit in the garden today and look at the flowers and the sun and appreciate everything.
Personally I would like everything to get back to normal as soon as, with perhaps a deeper understanding of how great being alive in this diverse and beautiful and proud city is.
THURSDAY 7 JULY 2357 BST
I'm okay, just starting to crash.
I am keeping calm, but unable to get the horrible smell out of my nose, even though I have had a bath.
I am getting a bit tearful but I had this overwhelming need to get the story out, so everyone owned it and it wasn't just jammed in my head, freaking me out.
It helps to say what happened
THURSDAY 7 JULY 2259 BST
I was on a crowded train to work. It was 8.40am when I boarded the rammed Piccadilly line train at Finsbury Park.
Normally I board half way up the train, but the train was so full, I walked up to the front of the train.
I was in the first carriage, behind the driver's carriage, standing by the doors - it was absolutely packed.
Even more people got on at Kings Cross. It felt like the most crowded train ever. Then, as we left Kings Cross, at about 8.55am, there was an almighty bang.
Everything went totally black and clouds of choking smoke filled the Tube carriage and I thought I had been blinded.
It was so dark that nobody could see anything.
I thought I was about to die, or was dead. I was choking from the smoke and felt like I was drowning.
Air started to flood in through the smashed glass and the emergency lighting helped us see a bit. We were OK.
A terrible screaming followed the initial silence.
We tried to stop ourselves from panicking by talking to each other and listening to the driver who started talking to us.
There was screaming and groaning but we calmed each other and tried to listen to the driver.
He told us he was going to take the train forward a little so he could get us out, after he had made sure the track wasn't live.
We all passed the message into the darkness behind us, down the train.
After about 20 to 30 minutes we started to leave the train.
We were choking and trying not to panic because we knew that would mean curtains.
We tried to keep each other calm, I remember saying: "If anyone's boss gives them grief for being late, we know what to say to them, eh, girls?"
People laughed and we kept saying, "not long, it's the long walk to freedom, nearly there".
I knew if we panicked we'd trip on the - possibly live - tracks and it would be hopeless.
So we just tried to stay cool, and trust we'd be safe soon.
We'd escaped from the smashed carriage and just had to stay calm and escape from the dark tunnel too.
We walked carefully through the semi-darkness - we didn't know if the tracks were live so we walked between them - the emergency lights were on in the tunnel.
We walked in single file to Russell Square station and after what felt like half an hour we were lifted off the tracks to safety.
Then I was in a lift, euphorically calm, then in the station foyer, surrounded by filthy blackened shocked people and someone was handing me water.
My mouth was so dry. My lungs felt full of choking dirt and I became aware of a huge bleeding gash full of glass in my wrist and that I could see the bone in my arm, and then I felt sick.
I realised I needed to clean my cut as it was full of grit, and I was bleeding, so I held my arm above my head and breathed in and out hard.
But I also knew I didn't need an ambulance - it was a nasty gash, not a maiming.
I staggered about outside the tube and no-one seemed to know what to do, least of all me.
I called my friend who works in Shaftesbury Avenue and she came in a cab and she took me to University College Hospital.
We asked if anyone wanted to get a lift to the hospital but people seemed too shocked to respond and I started to faint.
I just wanted to get my wound cleaned and stitched and get home.
I was feeling sick and worrying much worse casualties would be coming later.
I was walking wounded, not really badly hurt, and I felt almost bad for having survived and got off so lightly. I knew others behind me were so much worse off than I was.
The hospital staff were so lovely I kept wanting to cry but I knew I needed to stay calm and get home.
I got treated, my cut cleaned of glass and x-rayed.
Hours passed.
I felt even more calm and light-headed as people started to flood into the hospital covered in glass and blood.
The police talked to me and gave me a forensic bag for my clothes.
I felt like I got into the hospital so fast and the emergency services staff weren't quite in the rush hour yet.
I was so very lucky.
The emergency staff were clearly shocked but doing all they could and rose to the occasion so bravely.
I can't thank them enough. They were magnificent.
They kept me in for four hours with shock and they stitched me up but they wouldn't let me go because I had gone deaf and they weren't sure if I had broken my arm.
X-rays proved it was just bashed.
Eventually I got out and met my partner and we walked to Camden as there were no buses or trains and we were desperate to get home.
Seeing his face was wonderful. I started to shake with the relief of being alive.
In the pub I found out there had been many bombs.
I went into shock - I probably still am in shock.
It took another two hours to get home after a friend managed to pick us up in her car.
I am very lucky. I feel euphoric. I'm sure I'll crash soon, but right now, I'm so glad to be alive.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Height advantage
If I have seen further than others it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.
Isaac Newton (1642 - 1727), Letter to Robert Hooke, February 5, 1675
If I have seen further than others it is by standing on the shoulders of my sons.
Barry Thomas (1933 -
Isaac Newton (1642 - 1727), Letter to Robert Hooke, February 5, 1675
If I have seen further than others it is by standing on the shoulders of my sons.
Barry Thomas (1933 -
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Old Age
I was thinking into the future the other day and had this vision:
Nurse: "Mr Thomas! What are you doing?"
Me: "It's Sunday morning and I'm taking the dogs a walk."
Nurse: "Mr Thomas, it's Tuesday, you have no dogs and you're in another patient's bedroom."
So be it.
Nurse: "Mr Thomas! What are you doing?"
Me: "It's Sunday morning and I'm taking the dogs a walk."
Nurse: "Mr Thomas, it's Tuesday, you have no dogs and you're in another patient's bedroom."
So be it.
Discovery and the art of seeing
"Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody has thought."
Albert von Szent-Gyorgyi (1893 - 1986)
"I think this applies both to artists and scientists (BT)
Albert von Szent-Gyorgyi (1893 - 1986)
"I think this applies both to artists and scientists (BT)
Ellen DeGeneres
"In the beginning there was nothing. God said, 'Let there be light!' And there was light. There was still nothing, but you could see it a whole lot better."
"I was coming home from kindergarten--well they told me it was kindergarten. I found out later I had been working in a factory for ten years. It's good for a kid to know how to make gloves."
"My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She's ninety-seven now, and we don't know where the hell she is."
Ellen DeGeneres US comedian and actress
"I was coming home from kindergarten--well they told me it was kindergarten. I found out later I had been working in a factory for ten years. It's good for a kid to know how to make gloves."
"My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She's ninety-seven now, and we don't know where the hell she is."
Ellen DeGeneres US comedian and actress
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Religious Hatred
"I was walking across a bridge one day and I saw a man about to jump. I said,
'Stop, don't do it.'
'Why shouldn't I?' he asked.
'Well, are you Christian?' I asked. He said:
'Yes.' I said,
'Me too. Are you Catholic or Protestant?'
'Protestant.'
'Me too. Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?'
'Baptist.'
'Wow, me too. Are you Baptist church of God or Baptist church of the Lord?'
'Baptist Church of God. '
'Me too. Are you original Baptist Church of God, or are you reformed Baptist Church of God?'
'Reformed Baptist Church of God.'
'Me too. Are you Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1879, or Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915?' He said,
'Reformation of 1915.' I said:
'Die, heretic scum, and pushed him off."
Emo Phillips
'Stop, don't do it.'
'Why shouldn't I?' he asked.
'Well, are you Christian?' I asked. He said:
'Yes.' I said,
'Me too. Are you Catholic or Protestant?'
'Protestant.'
'Me too. Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?'
'Baptist.'
'Wow, me too. Are you Baptist church of God or Baptist church of the Lord?'
'Baptist Church of God. '
'Me too. Are you original Baptist Church of God, or are you reformed Baptist Church of God?'
'Reformed Baptist Church of God.'
'Me too. Are you Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1879, or Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915?' He said,
'Reformation of 1915.' I said:
'Die, heretic scum, and pushed him off."
Emo Phillips
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Beauty (2)
84% of teenage boys think that their lives would be improved if they had a better body; six out of ten say they worry about their body shape at least twice a week, and 25% would consider cosmetic surgery to look more like their celebrity idols.
Only 13% are happy with their bodies, with 68% dissatisfied with their legs, 67% with their arms, 65% their bottoms, 64% the size of their penis, 62% their faces and 49% their hair.
Sneak magazine/Daily Mail
Only 13% are happy with their bodies, with 68% dissatisfied with their legs, 67% with their arms, 65% their bottoms, 64% the size of their penis, 62% their faces and 49% their hair.
Sneak magazine/Daily Mail
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Beauty
I was walking the dogs today, Sunday morning, in the heart of Loynton Moss woods. There was a mass of bluebells and little pink flowers I know not the name of.
It struck me how different this little world was from ours. Here the flowers held their beauty with modesty. They did seem not care if they were not seen by masses of human eyes.
In our society, beauty seems to be nothing unless it is flaunted. Beautiful people (and I use the word in its popular sense) have to be seen. At clubs, on the TV, in the papers, anywhere to get noticed.
How lovely it was, in the woods, to see modest beauty.
It struck me how different this little world was from ours. Here the flowers held their beauty with modesty. They did seem not care if they were not seen by masses of human eyes.
In our society, beauty seems to be nothing unless it is flaunted. Beautiful people (and I use the word in its popular sense) have to be seen. At clubs, on the TV, in the papers, anywhere to get noticed.
How lovely it was, in the woods, to see modest beauty.
Monday, May 02, 2005
The Night
The night does not fall she rises
to catch the falling day
The day falls - crumples across the earth
its long shadow racing over houses
it swoons exhausted releasing
the fixity of the world
to scatter into the night,
and in the wilderness far from city lights
the horizon disappears
trees grip the earth
and fields become a cradle
blanketed by darkness
where I and the others lie.
Robert Thomas
to catch the falling day
The day falls - crumples across the earth
its long shadow racing over houses
it swoons exhausted releasing
the fixity of the world
to scatter into the night,
and in the wilderness far from city lights
the horizon disappears
trees grip the earth
and fields become a cradle
blanketed by darkness
where I and the others lie.
Robert Thomas
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Litigious Britain
A local education authority has urged schools to ban pupils from wearing swimming goggles, for fear that they pose a "drowning risk" to other children. The authority in Gloucestershire is concerned that teachers might be so distracted adjusting goggle straps that they wouldn't spot other pupils getting into difficulty. Teachers have been advised that children should only wear goggles in special circumstances, for instance if they suffer from allergies.
The England and Wales cricket board has decreed that every volunteer who comes into contact with junior players - umpires, groundsmen, scorers and even tea ladies - must be subjected to a full police vetting. The ECB has also warned coaches to insure against the possibility of "child welfare legal action".
Councils around Britain are ripping up paving stones and replacing them, with ugly asphalt, In an effort to cut compensation costs. In 2003 alone, 800 people a month tried to sue Liverpool council after tripping on uneven flagstones. Although 80% of the cases proved unjustified, it cost the council £5.6bn. Now, 60 streets in Liverpool are getting an asphalt makeover - to the horror of residents - and Bradford and Durham have begun similar schemes.
A village carnival that has been running since 1912 has been axed after someone threw a water bomb. Organisers of the Tottan and Eling carnival are being sued for "distress and pain" by a woman who was hit last year by a balloon filled with water. As a result, insurance costs have risen so high that the village has been forced to cancel the event.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Too Many Names
Mondays are meshed with Tuesdays
And the week with the whole year.
Time cannot be cut
With your exhausted scissors,
And all the names of the day
Are washed out in the waters of the night.
No-one can claim the name of Pedro
Nobody is a Rosa or Maria,
All of us are dust and sand,
All of us are rain under rain,
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and Pargaguays;
I have no idea what they are saying,
I know only of the skin of the earth
And I know it is without a name...
Pablo Neruda
And the week with the whole year.
Time cannot be cut
With your exhausted scissors,
And all the names of the day
Are washed out in the waters of the night.
No-one can claim the name of Pedro
Nobody is a Rosa or Maria,
All of us are dust and sand,
All of us are rain under rain,
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and Pargaguays;
I have no idea what they are saying,
I know only of the skin of the earth
And I know it is without a name...
Pablo Neruda
Monday, April 25, 2005
Sunday morning
Sunday morning, praise the dawning
I've got a restless feeling by my side
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It's just the wasted years so close behind
Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all
Sunday morning and I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all
Sunday morning
Lou Reed
I've got a restless feeling by my side
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It's just the wasted years so close behind
Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all
Sunday morning and I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all
Sunday morning
Lou Reed
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
A time for change? A new voting system
Our present system of voting makes it difficult to oust the party in government, because that objective is coloured by where to place your vote. If you place it with any party other than the main opposition party, there is a danger that it will not be effective.
I propose a system that would address this problem.
Each person has two votes
The first is a direct vote to say if you wish the present party to remain in power or not. A straight yes or no.
This is counted as a total, nothing to do with the local candidate, and thus voters in constituencies where there is a big majority will not feel that their vote is wasted.
The second vote is for your favoured candidate.
Scenario 1
If you vote to oust the present government you can then proceed to vote for your chosen candidate, safe in the knowledge that the vote will not be wasted.
The new government would be made up of MP's from all the other parties, and government posts allotted in a proportional way.
Scenario 2
If you voted to keep the government you would then vote for your candidate in the normal way.
I propose a system that would address this problem.
Each person has two votes
The first is a direct vote to say if you wish the present party to remain in power or not. A straight yes or no.
This is counted as a total, nothing to do with the local candidate, and thus voters in constituencies where there is a big majority will not feel that their vote is wasted.
The second vote is for your favoured candidate.
Scenario 1
If you vote to oust the present government you can then proceed to vote for your chosen candidate, safe in the knowledge that the vote will not be wasted.
The new government would be made up of MP's from all the other parties, and government posts allotted in a proportional way.
Scenario 2
If you voted to keep the government you would then vote for your candidate in the normal way.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Zimbabwe? or ... oh my goodness
Not since women were denied the vote has Britain's electoral system been so "breathtakingly undemocratic", says The Business. If Labour and the Tories win exactly the same share of the popular vote on 5 May, Labour will still end up with 140 more MPs. This is because boundary changes have failed to keep up with demographic trends. People are moving out of the grimy inner cities (traditional Labour strongholds) to the suburbs and shires (Tory strongholds). The average Labour constituency now has 6,000 fewer voters than its Tory counterpart; yet the declining inner cities are still massively over-represented, and the growing suburbs under-represented. The Tories "have largely themselves to blame": when the electoral boundaries were last redrawn, ten years ago, Labour fielded a crack team of lawyers, while the complacent Tories put up a B-team. As a result, the electoral system was redrawn in Labour's favour. Combine this with the risk of postal fraud, and it looks like Britain is "becoming one huge rotten borough".
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Driving us to .... death?
Letters to the Daily Telegraph:
Sir,
On a trip from London to Bristol, where there is about 100 miles on which the speed limit can be ignored, the difference in journey time at 80mph instead of 70mph is 11 minutes. Is the wear and tear on the nervous system, the increased chances of an accident and the 20 per cent additional fuel worth it?
Derek Evans, Chippenham, Wilts
Sir,
The answer to the question posed by Barbara Davy (Letters, Apr 15) - to name a piece of machinery other than the car implicated in more than 3,000 deaths every year - must be, according to the recent figures for deaths from MRSA, the hospital bed.
Bernard Mahan, Edinburgh
Sir,
On a trip from London to Bristol, where there is about 100 miles on which the speed limit can be ignored, the difference in journey time at 80mph instead of 70mph is 11 minutes. Is the wear and tear on the nervous system, the increased chances of an accident and the 20 per cent additional fuel worth it?
Derek Evans, Chippenham, Wilts
Sir,
The answer to the question posed by Barbara Davy (Letters, Apr 15) - to name a piece of machinery other than the car implicated in more than 3,000 deaths every year - must be, according to the recent figures for deaths from MRSA, the hospital bed.
Bernard Mahan, Edinburgh
Friday, April 15, 2005
CAN YOU READ THIS?
Men who use Viagra may put themselves at risk of permanent blindness, experts warn.
Researchers say there have been 14 known cases in which men have suffered a 'stroke of the eye' shortly after taking the drug used to cure impotence.
A stroke of the eye occurs when the blood flow to the optic nerve is cut off, leading to irreversible loss of vision. Experts at the University of Minnesota Medical School in the U.S. said the number of cases supported the belief that there may be a causal link between Viagra and the condition.
source: The Daily Mail
Researchers say there have been 14 known cases in which men have suffered a 'stroke of the eye' shortly after taking the drug used to cure impotence.
A stroke of the eye occurs when the blood flow to the optic nerve is cut off, leading to irreversible loss of vision. Experts at the University of Minnesota Medical School in the U.S. said the number of cases supported the belief that there may be a causal link between Viagra and the condition.
source: The Daily Mail
Educate the masses
To the Daily Telegraph
Labour hoardings ask "Who do you want to run the country?". I would like someone educated enough to write " Whom do you want to run the country?"
David Lucas, Cornwall
Labour hoardings ask "Who do you want to run the country?". I would like someone educated enough to write " Whom do you want to run the country?"
David Lucas, Cornwall
Ruby wedding 3
I'm still eating the chocolate cake left over from the pre-Ruby do at the J&B's guest house. If any one wants some there's still loads in the freezer.
Esref Armagan
Esref Armagan is a painter. He paints houses and mountains and lakes and faces and butterflies, but he's never seen any of these things. He is totally blind. From birth. He depicts colour, shadow and perspective, but it is not clear how he could have witnessed these things either. How does he do it?
Because if Armagan can represent images in the same way a sighted person can, it raises big questions not only about how our brains construct mental images, but also about the role those images play in seeing. Do we build up mental images using just our eyes or do other senses contribute too? How much can congenitally blind people really understand about space and the layout of objects within it? How much "seeing" does a blind person actually do?
Armagan was born 51 years ago in one of Istanbul's poorer neighbourhoods. One of his eyes failed to develop beyond a rudimentary bud, the other is stunted and scarred. It is impossible to know if he had some vision as an infant, but he certainly never saw normally and his brain detects no light now. Few of the children in his neighbourhood were formally educated, and like them, he spent his early years playing in the streets. But Armagan's blindness isolated him, and to pass the time, he turned to drawing. At first he just scratched in the dirt. But by age 6 he was using pencil and paper. At 18 he started painting with his fingers, first on paper, then on canvas with oils. At age 42 he discovered fast-drying acrylics.
“He paints houses and mountains and lakes and faces and butterflies, but he's never seen any of these things”
His paintings are disarmingly realistic. And his skills are formidable. "I have tested blind people for decades," says John Kennedy, a psychologist at the University of Toronto, "and I have never seen a performance like his." Kennedy's first opportunity to meet and test Armagan in person was during a visit to New York last May, for a forum organised by a group called Art Education for the Blind. Armagan, who is something of a celebrity in Turkey, has become used to touring with his canvases to the Czech Republic, China, Italy and the Netherlands. What made this visit different was the interest shown by scientists - both Kennedy and a team from Boston.
Full article: http://www.newscientist.com/channel/being-human/mg18524841.700
View his paintings at: http://www.anatolia.com/anatolia/Gallery/armagan/paints.asp
BUT BE WARNED: THERE IS A NASTY FLASHING ADD ON THE SITE. I SUGGEST YOU DO NOT CLICK IT
Because if Armagan can represent images in the same way a sighted person can, it raises big questions not only about how our brains construct mental images, but also about the role those images play in seeing. Do we build up mental images using just our eyes or do other senses contribute too? How much can congenitally blind people really understand about space and the layout of objects within it? How much "seeing" does a blind person actually do?
Armagan was born 51 years ago in one of Istanbul's poorer neighbourhoods. One of his eyes failed to develop beyond a rudimentary bud, the other is stunted and scarred. It is impossible to know if he had some vision as an infant, but he certainly never saw normally and his brain detects no light now. Few of the children in his neighbourhood were formally educated, and like them, he spent his early years playing in the streets. But Armagan's blindness isolated him, and to pass the time, he turned to drawing. At first he just scratched in the dirt. But by age 6 he was using pencil and paper. At 18 he started painting with his fingers, first on paper, then on canvas with oils. At age 42 he discovered fast-drying acrylics.
“He paints houses and mountains and lakes and faces and butterflies, but he's never seen any of these things”
His paintings are disarmingly realistic. And his skills are formidable. "I have tested blind people for decades," says John Kennedy, a psychologist at the University of Toronto, "and I have never seen a performance like his." Kennedy's first opportunity to meet and test Armagan in person was during a visit to New York last May, for a forum organised by a group called Art Education for the Blind. Armagan, who is something of a celebrity in Turkey, has become used to touring with his canvases to the Czech Republic, China, Italy and the Netherlands. What made this visit different was the interest shown by scientists - both Kennedy and a team from Boston.
Full article: http://www.newscientist.com/channel/being-human/mg18524841.700
View his paintings at: http://www.anatolia.com/anatolia/Gallery/armagan/paints.asp
BUT BE WARNED: THERE IS A NASTY FLASHING ADD ON THE SITE. I SUGGEST YOU DO NOT CLICK IT
Abortion
Sir - If life begins at conception (and, indeed, there is no other logical point at which it can be said to begin), then any deliberate ending of life is wrong. It does not become "more wrong" the closer it approaches to the time when a baby, if born, could survive.
On the contrary, it seems instinctively more wrong to remove from a place of safety a baby who would not otherwise be able to survive.
It has been suggested by Michael Howard and others that the upper limit should be reduced from 24 to 20 weeks. This is misleading, because in fact the upper limit is not 24 weeks for all abortions. For babies diagnosed as having a disability, and for some others, there is no time limit, and abortion is allowed up to the moment of birth.
In ignoring these abortions, a strong message is sent out that disabled babies matter less than those aborted for other reasons. I have spina bifida, and 90 per cent of babies with my disability are now aborted - a fatal discrimination against those with disabilities.
Any upper-limit Bill will always exclude the most vulnerable of the unborn - for instance younger babies and those with disabilities, who are most in need of the protection of the law.
The only logical amendment to the law would be to legislate against all abortions, and put support mechanisms in place for women with crisis pregnancies. This would be just towards both the unborn and women facing difficulties. Anything else sells both groups short.
Alison Davis, Blandford Forum, Dorset
On the contrary, it seems instinctively more wrong to remove from a place of safety a baby who would not otherwise be able to survive.
It has been suggested by Michael Howard and others that the upper limit should be reduced from 24 to 20 weeks. This is misleading, because in fact the upper limit is not 24 weeks for all abortions. For babies diagnosed as having a disability, and for some others, there is no time limit, and abortion is allowed up to the moment of birth.
In ignoring these abortions, a strong message is sent out that disabled babies matter less than those aborted for other reasons. I have spina bifida, and 90 per cent of babies with my disability are now aborted - a fatal discrimination against those with disabilities.
Any upper-limit Bill will always exclude the most vulnerable of the unborn - for instance younger babies and those with disabilities, who are most in need of the protection of the law.
The only logical amendment to the law would be to legislate against all abortions, and put support mechanisms in place for women with crisis pregnancies. This would be just towards both the unborn and women facing difficulties. Anything else sells both groups short.
Alison Davis, Blandford Forum, Dorset
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
April 10th
“April 10th” from a Poem for the Day Edited by Nicholas Albery
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still we keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er darkened ways
Made of our searching; yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away from the pall
From our dark spirits
John Keats from Endymion Book 1
Also on this day
1791 Robert Burns’ third son was born
1794 Coleridge discharged from army as insane
1818 John Keats dated his Preface from Endymion
1909 Algernon Charles Swinburne, reformed Bohemian, died from pneumonia at the home of Watts-Dunton
1952 Liverpool Pop Poet Adrian Henri was born
1965 Sue Taylor married Barry Thomas
2005 they celebrated their 40th anniversary
mid 1940s Geoff Hopwood was born
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still we keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er darkened ways
Made of our searching; yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away from the pall
From our dark spirits
John Keats from Endymion Book 1
Also on this day
1791 Robert Burns’ third son was born
1794 Coleridge discharged from army as insane
1818 John Keats dated his Preface from Endymion
1909 Algernon Charles Swinburne, reformed Bohemian, died from pneumonia at the home of Watts-Dunton
1952 Liverpool Pop Poet Adrian Henri was born
1965 Sue Taylor married Barry Thomas
2005 they celebrated their 40th anniversary
mid 1940s Geoff Hopwood was born
Ruby Wedding 2
Poem by Elinor Thomas for our Ruby wedding
Riding on horses
Umbrellas in April showers
Bottles of Champagne
Young love for ever
Riding on horses
Umbrellas in April showers
Bottles of Champagne
Young love for ever
Ruby Wedding 1
A poem wriiten by Robert Thomas for our Ruby wedding when all our sons and their partners and children were present
For a Ruby Wedding
This poem is your poem
It was written when you first kissed
And it is spoken today by each of us
Whose lives are its fabulous lines.
Robert Thomas
For a Ruby Wedding
This poem is your poem
It was written when you first kissed
And it is spoken today by each of us
Whose lives are its fabulous lines.
Robert Thomas
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