Now half past four. Home, walking back was certainly odd.
I was expecting a deserted ghost town. But it was as busy as ever, yet still very quiet. Everyone seemed dazed and confused, the main roads were shut off, the Euston Underpass is silent and the mangled bus is still there.
Everyone will soon be talking about how plucky Londoner’s are great in a time of crisis. I don’t think this is quite the case. I think that people just have a marvellous propensity to go into shock and make everythign seem a bit unreal.
But it’s true, there were no screaming hoardes near me when the blasts went off, there was no pandemonium, just a lot of people staring blearily around not having much idea what was going on.
This wasn’t brave Londoner’s, this was a bunch of Londoner’s still mainly being a bit pissed off that they couldn’t get to work. Most of the people on the phone at that time seemed more concerned at ringing their offices to say they were on the way.
Sure, the shock and worry kicked in later. But the main resaon for lack of panic was that at first everyone completely bought the story of a power surge.
I’m as guilty, admittedly I didn’t believe the power surge story for a second. But I’ve spent most of the day not as Jackie Chan kicking the terrorist ass, but more like Jackie Collins, trying to get hold of everyone and making sure they’re ok.
There’ll be lot’s of rhetoric about how the world has changed forever over the next few days, but soon enough the main topic of conversation for most people will be who’s wanked off who in the Big Brother house and what’s happening in the Queen Vic. Then Mr Government will point at pictures of Kings Cross and tell us “look, told you you’re unsafe…now go get an ID card” and people will.
Go to sleep Britain.