Who Made Bombs
Thursday. The shoulder bag is back, a gift from the gods, a message that says, in effect: “lug me no more and leave me in the car” (in the back under the cargo cover). And I shall heed this advice. I am, after all, a low level corporate grunt, well schooled in taking direction.
Aren't we all.
Foggy overcast mornings, this last week, with the fog retreating by mid morning, the sun hot (90 plus degrees) in the interior, relatively cool on the coast. That, for me, is a description of perfect weather. Sleep with a blanket at night, a light jacket throughout the morning and in the early evening, shirt sleeve weather during the noon hour and early afternoon. Quite warm coming home, a cool breeze by six in the evening.
I awoke to the news of the London bombings, of course. We received an email after noon saying none of our people had been harmed. Odd to work for a company where, wherever the disaster, we have an office. The tsunami? Our people managed to survive. The Kobe earthquake? We had damage, but no loss of life. London goes boom? Our people are reported safe inside.
Do I know someone who's been harmed, thinking of MSC and Polly, calculating the odds, thinking there's little or no chance, then feeling another pange of concern. A new world, not unlike the old world, I suppose, where people too died in buildings, in airplanes, on subways and buses. The scene from Hitchcock's Sabotage runs through my mind: the boy unknowingly delivering the package for his mother's lodger, the camera following him as he's diverted here, diverted there; the bomb in the package ticking, the boy killed on a bus because he was a kid and he was late and his mother had a lodger who made bombs.