| Thursday, July 14, 2005 |
 | By the time I got to the vigil, the main speakers had concluded, and instead the stage had been handed over to celebrities, Londoners and members of the public, giving and receiving thanks and reading poems. Some of the poems, and I say this with love, were awful.
Richard Madeley warned us not to give in to hate. Given that under normal circumstances the only hate I might be at risk of succumbing to is that of Richard Madeley, the day took on a strange hue.
Beppe, remarkably, turned in a barnstorming rendition of Henry James on London. As I arrived, somebody was reading Anna Akhmatova, and my eyes stung. Strange combinations.
Again, there was something quite London about it - no overnight stays, no candles, everybody out by half past eight. One young woman waved a New Zealand Flag, another a Union Jack embroidered with the legend We're Not Afraid. I uttered a silent imprecation at missing the chance to kick-start interest in my own website "We're a bit nervous, but, meh, what can you do?".
Ultimately, however, it was the compère who mattered - who could they find who represented the indomitable spirit of Britain, the calm acceptance of the ever-present risk of death, and, most important, the triumph of love over death? And at short notice?
Rupert Giles, ladies and gentlemen. Rupert Giles in the Square. If that's not a calming influence, I don't know what is.
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