Underground weather

I wouldn’t normally write about something as boring as weather, but since they had to evacuate one of my company’s properties in Paris, cancelled the Eurostar for this evening and stopped all flights to and from Heathrow, I thought I would mention in passing that it is howling here. Not really raining in London, but elsewhere it is blowing fury. At this point, as I sit comfortably on the eighth floor, well above the whipping trees and turned out umbrellas, it’s more annoying than anything else, because we have six German directors here freaking out that they are unable to get home tonight. You say “ah! Mein flug geht nicht! Scheisse!” I say, “what a great opportunity to take in a West End show. And, being a six-figured salaried director, I can even afford the insane prices for the front of the stalls!” Mostly I’m just itchy to get out of here. I might actually make it out on time tonight—not that that means much, since I came in at 8:15 this morning. Dur.

What I really wanted to write about (and don’t worry, I’m off the clock) was the phrase “makes your blood run cold” which up until a few days ago I thought was just a figure of speech. That was until I read about a new set of Tube bombers who actually made it on the Tube and it was only because their bombs were poorly made that they failed to go off and so another crisis was averted. They were captured and now they're on trial. I read about the first days of this trial in the Metro and I literally felt my blood run cold—it started in my scalp behind my ears and pooled down between my shoulders. I am a blender of emotions at this. Mad, that someone would dare take a bomb on my favourite form of transportation. Terrified, that I could be on that favourite mode of transportation and something might happen. Worried, that events like this are slowly warping my still-developing attitudes towards minorities. (yes, they are Muslim, but can I just say that I’m hacked off that all newspapers feel the need to point out the bomb material was packed in with chapatti flour, thereby indicating firmly that these men are “other” because God knows if a white person were to make a bomb it would have safe, normal white flour) Where was I? Oh yes, and stressed out that it’s just one more thing to worry about. At this rate, I won’t need to be sad about leaving London, I’ll be ready to go. Who needs to hear about this kind of thing day after day and always be on your guard? Not I, say I.