Tonight I sat opposite a woman who was sobbing her heart out on the Tube. Her name was Annabelle.
As I travelled from central London out to the suburbs this young lady wept uncontrollably the whole way. Eventually, I offered her a tissue - and in doing so learnt that her best friend's sister, Fiona, was killed on the Piccadilly line last week. Her murder was confirmed tonight.
I'd just been through King's Cross and seen the flowers, the memorials, the general defiance.
Opposite me, another gentleman cracked a couple of jokes. I don't mean in a mocking way; he was using humour to cope. Simply wanting to include him in the conversation, I asked, "Do you know anyone who was affected by the bombings?"
"Not directly," he said sparingly.
"Indirectly?" I enquired.
The man's eyes welled up, and he could hardly get the words out. "I was working down there afterwards ... I saw bits and pieces ... " was all he could manage.
Then our train stopped. The three of us, perfect strangers, got off together. We found out that we live in the same town.
Events like this kind of bring home the madness of these horrific attacks in a whole new way.
