When the bombs went off on July 7th, 2005, I was 20 years old and working at the London Eye as a VIP Hospitality Executive (I provided the “ultimate VIP experience” to famous people, stag parties, marriage proposals etc…).
I remember that we received word of what happened before the public did because we were a possible target. I remember being ready to make a run for it, but we weren’t allowed to leave. I had two jobs that morning–the first was, as instructed by MI5, to tell the people in the area that we were shutting down for the day due to technical difficulties (I didn’t lie to anyone). Then, I was told to search the bathroom for anything suspicious while we waited for the sniffer dogs to arrive. I had no idea what I was doing, but I searched around and tried to look important.
When we were released, I walked out of the building and saw tons of people pouring into the streets. A hot guy I worked with offered to take me home. His car was parked a couple of miles away, so I took off my heels, he took my hand and we walked.
I remember feeling like a little kid that day. I remember feeling confused by the blank look on people’s faces even though they were all probably just as confused and scared as I was. I remember my co-worker having to pull me away when I looked down the street and saw debris from that fucking bus and the blood on the wall.
Days later, I remember seeing posters for missing persons.
On July 9th, we were back at work. I remember reading an interview with a woman who said when she got off the bus, she saw “a pile of bodies in the back.” It made me sick to my stomach.
We all read stories like that in the news and we look it over. We have to, you know? We can’t emotionally connect to every terrible thing that happens. It’s weird. I just think it’s a really weird thing we do as fragile humans.