Current level of conviction in own genius: 5.5
Amount of creative activity in last 24 hours: 1 hour
Hair day: Very floppy, refusing to be moulded by various hair putties. Needs cutting.
Humph. London's staunch defiance and stoicism my not-very-toned arse. People are not diving merrily onto the tubes waving two fingers in terrorism's general direction. We are getting on the tubes and the packed buses because we have to, otherwise no money would line our coffers. We're scared but we have little choice, unless we live near enough to work to develop calves like melons by cycling in. Sitting on the bus or travelling the underground fills me with a heavy-hearted resignation about my impending death (just to add to my feelings about flying then), and I spend the time trying to decide which seat will leave me with the most limbs intact, whilst it's inescpapable not to eye fellow passengers, scoping out bag size, skin colour and demeanour. Dammit. It's of course so much worse that 4 West Yorkshire lads, with decent backgrounds including young families and employment as a youth/disabled worker, are the perpetrators. They're not evil foreign intruders. They're ours, British-born; home-grown mass-murderers.
On a more sanguine note, in efforts to retain normal cosy mosey through life, I saw Sigur Ros at Somerset House on Sunday. It was a charming gig if not mind-blowing, with the setting making it: as it got later, the inner courtyard walls reddened in the twilight, and seagulls above seemed to sail on the glowing arcs flung up by the bowed electric guitar onstage, bellies warmed from the light below; clouds seemed to slowly darken and expand, like wool in water, and stars quietly unfolded themselves one by one. It was just the right kind of ambience for that horror-filled weekend, a gentle sonic embrace that allowed time to reflect, think on your own continuing unbombed existence, and savour the company of the ones you love.