There’s not a whole lot I can say about the events of Thursday, and certainly nothing of value to add to the millions of words already written. I’m sure you’ve all read more than you can stomach, but Ian McEwan writing in the Guardian on Friday morning is worth reading, as is London blogger Diamond Geezer, who recalled his post in the aftermath of the Madrid bombs last year.

As for my own experience, I first heard of events at about 11 o’clock, and then spent the next seven or eight hours in front of the TV. I fielded a couple of calls from concerned relatives, checking that my Dad wasn’t in London (he often commutes through King’s Cross), but fortunately he was working from home on Thursday. At around 16.30 my brother rang from Greece, on holiday with friends, having come back from a boat trip to hear news of the attacks. He was fortunate in getting straight through, but a couple of his companions waited several hours before receiving reassurance. St Albans is only 20 minutes train ride north of King’s Cross and consequently has a huge number of commuters, including the parents of several of my brother’s friends.

I guess with events such as these everyone has a story to tell, and can count themselves fortunate if it is only of friends stranded or near misses. The only member of my family in the vicinity was a cousin, above ground on a bus at the time, who safely found her way to her office soon afterwards. As for my friends, I have a few working in central London this summer, one of whom I was speaking to earlier this evening. His usual route to work takes him on the Edgware Road line, but by amazing luck he decided on Thursday to test an alternative route. By the time they shut down the trains entirely he was above ground again, but the timing of his journey would have probably taken him on the very train that was attacked. Stories of such narrow escapes are not uncommon and it is sobering to think of the flip-side; those who ran onto the trains as the doors were shutting, or just happened to have a meeting in London that day.

I left a host of unanswered questions in my last post, and I will be sure to address them next time. I’ve managed to find some work for these few weeks, yielding tales of fridge wrestling and fork-lift riding. On Monday I travel to the exotic climes of Swindon. These tales and more in the next exciting dispatch from the Floating Face…