Sometime around 10am on 7 July 2005 I phoned work. “I don’t think I can come in today,” I said, “the bus behind me has just exploded.” I was on a bus heading north towards Euston at the edge of Tavistock Square when the diverted number 30 rolled past us and then there was a bang that sounded like nothing else on earth. Our bus, still intact, surged forward and came to a stop somewhere near the station leaving behind twisted metal and smoke. I looked back once. There were car alarms going off everywhere.
And then, because there was only confusion in the direct vicinity, I went to a cafe between Euston and King’s Cross where it was as if nothing had happened. There were actually children playing in a primary school playground. With someone else from work I sat and we drank coffee, ate a cake, calmed our shaking selves and listened to the news.